Father
by Mandolin77
Summary: Sometimes Frederic wonders whether he is raising children or the other way around.
1. Human Water Cycle

**Father**

**Summary: **This story takes place two years after the end of the game, and we find Frederic, Jazz, Viola, Falsetto, and all five of the kids living together in the Antantino Hideout house. Frederic is busy learning how to be a father, a lover, a friend, and a confidante to a host of new people... and trying to figure out where his own needs fit in.

**Warnings: ** Slash (JazzxFrederic), cursing, violence, domestic abuse, drug/alcohol abuse, cross-dressing. The rating will undoubtedly change as the story goes on.

*Edit* I wanted to write something about Frederic being a dad - you know, watch him squirm as he tries to answer all those questions about where babies come from. And I did. But a year and a half later, this fic has evolved into something a lot bigger than that, and I don't believe it's anywhere close to being done. Much love to those who have stuck with it this far, and please read at your own risk.

* * *

**What happens when we die?**

August 1 - Saturday

I must admit, I feel a little silly writing in this, but Jazz gave it to me and I would hate to hurt his feelings, so write I shall. I suppose he thought it would help me sleep when he was out on missions; perhaps it will. Time has yet to tell, although I feel certain that a journal (I'm sorry, Jazz, I refuse to call it a diary - a diary is what Aurore kept, not I) will not be nearly as comforting beside me in bed at night as a warm body. But I do admit that my thoughts often trouble my dreams, so perhaps writing will quiet those thoughts. If nothing else, I'm sure Jazz will appreciate my efforts and doubtless enjoy reading about my life while he's away. Assuming I let him read this; I haven't decided yet.

So, allow me to try and fill a page or two with the intimate workings of my day. The children have taken to calling me 'father,' although really only half the time. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it, although I have known they thought that way of me for a long time. Why, I have no idea; would not Jazz be more of a father figure than I? But I suppose the heart can't help whom it finds attachment with.

I ought to know that better than anyone else, hm, Jazz?

The children are terribly sweet, and I frequently find myself caught off guard by their innocence. Viola and Falsetto have been trying to teach me how to cook (Viola, mostly, since Falsetto is often needed back in the Andantino caves or to go on missions with Jazz), and the children love to stand around and watch me, laughing all the while. There is something about seeing me in an apron that just simply strikes them all as hilarious, and, although I was embarrassed at first, it is hard to be upset at someone who is laughing so hard that tears are coming to their eyes. Even sitting here and merely thinking about them makes me smile; they are in my count of blessings every night, and I wouldn't have them anywhere else.

Today Viola showed me how to make scones, which I honestly had never heard of before, and we sat at the table together and ate our fresh scones (am I spelling that right?) and watched the rain drip down the glass of the windows. Polka, Allegretto, and Salsa had gone off to dig through the attic, which left only March, Beat, Viola, and myself, with Jazz and Falsetto off on another assignment. After a while Viola said she ought to go and bring the goats in so they didn't catch cold, and the conversation died down considerably. I must admit, I made no attempt to revive it; I was too busy staring out the window, wondering where Jazz was at the moment. Suddenly Beat dragged me out of my thoughts.

"Where does the rain come from?"

I turned to look at him, and opened my mouth to ask if he had never learned that in school before remembering that Beat didn't _go_ to school. Instead I just smiled and took another scone.

"Well, the clouds are made of water, so when the water gets too heavy, it falls back to the ground."

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "Is that why it snows, too?"

"Yes, and why it hails and sleets and all those sorts of things."

"How did the water get up there in the first place?"

"Evaporation." I laughed a little at the confusion on his face, and continued. "When the sun heats up the water, it turns to mist that goes into the air. Then the water cools down, and latches onto the dust and other water particles in the atmosphere, and turn into clouds. Then when the clouds get heavy enough, the water falls back to earth in the form of rain or snow."

"So it goes in a circle?"

"Yes," I paused. "It's called 'the water cycle.'"

He nodded slowly. "Are there lots of cycles?"

"Many. Most everything on earth moves in a circle of some sort or another."

"Do people, too?"

"I'm sorry; what do you mean?"

"Like, when we die, do we get recycled, too?"

I paused, my mouth half open. How do you answer that question to a ten-year-old? "Uh-um…" I looked down at the tea my left hand was stirring lazily, thinking. I _owed_ him a response, but what was there to say? "You mean, as in reincarnation?"

"Uh, I don't know, I guess so."

I cleared my throat, still looking at the half-empty tea cup. "Well, um, some people think that once you die, your soul is put back into a different body, and you live another life in that body. Some people think that you die and go to heaven or hell, depending on how you lived in your time on earth. Others say you simply… die, and that's it." I thought about adding _'and rot in the cold, hard ground,'_ but decided against it.

"I don't get it, though – why doesn't life have a cycle, too?"

"Well, no one knows for sure what happens once you die. What you think really depends on what you would like to believe."

They were silent for a moment, and March asked, "What about you, Frederic? What do you believe?"

I looked up at her, surprised, and smiled. "I have died in one world and come back to exist in this one; what choice do I have but to trust in the concept of rebirth?"

"What did you believe before… all this? You know, back in Paris?"

I shrugged and smiled again. "To be honest, I never really thought about it. I was always so ill that _staying alive _was a day-to-day problem, so I never actually had time to consider such questions."

"You never thought about it?"

"Perhaps, once in a while, but not often enough to come to a conclusion. Really, my only thoughts on the matter were that I hoped there was a life after this one, and mostly those thoughts came late at night on bad days when I was coming to terms with my mortality."

She gave me an earnest look that seemed to understand everything in my soul, and then gave a heartfelt smile and shifted the conversation. I can't help but wonder sometimes what's going on in that mauve little head of hers.

All right, it is getting late now, so I suppose I shall call it a day. Hm… I expect I shall have to leave the book open or the ink will smear. Hopefully no one will come in my room in the night and find it… although I imagine my fears are greatly mislaid. After all, now that I think about it, the entire thing so far is written in Polish, which no one but me can read (I've been teaching Jazz French, but not Polish. Most all of my papers were written for the French population, not that of Poland.). Actually, I haven't written anything in Polish for a very long time, and it feels good to practice a little bit. It's rusty and almost certainly riddled with absurd little errors, but luckily no one but me will ever know. I shall say my prayers now and try to find sleep tonight.


	2. Poros and Penia

**Why do Opposites Attract?**

August 4 – Tuesday

This morning I was cleaning up in my room, sweeping ashes from the fireplace and such things. I heard a knock on the door, and _Allegretto's _voice outside.

"Hey, Frederic?" I straightened up and looked at the closed door for a moment before moving to answer it.

"Yes?"

He just stood there, looking sheepishly at the floor, and I smiled. "Did you need me, Allegretto?"

"Can I… talk to you for a minute?"

"Certainly." I moved aside and he walked past me, not looking up. He pulled out a chair and sat down, finally meeting my eyes for a moment. I could see that he was blushing, and I couldn't help but let my smile grow wider, walking over to take the seat across from him. He dropped his gaze again and blushed harder. "Can I get you something to drink?" He nodded, and wordlessly accepted the cup of milk and cream I offered him (he hates tea), still refusing to look at me. "Is there something you would like to talk _about_, Allegretto?"

He shrugged uncomfortably and shifted the mug in his hands. "Do you… I don't know, do you believe in… true love?"

I looked at him, startled. This undoubtedly hadn't been the question I was anticipating - or anything even close. After a moment of silence, wherein I tried to regain composure and think of a response, he glanced up at me and then back down. Ah, there was infatuation in his eyes: young love. "I couldn't say, in all sincerity. I've been in love many times before, which would make me a liar if I were to say that I had experienced just one _true _love. But I've heard people say that it exists, seen people who have stayed happily together with one individual for their entire lives, so I'm sure it must be real."

"What about love at first sight?"

"Do I believe in it?" He nodded. "Sure I do. Of course, first impressions alone aren't enough to build a sturdy relationship off of, but that doesn't mean they can't be the starting point. There were some women I was simply besotted with and whom I'd never even met before."

"Some _women_?"

"You didn't believe Jazz to be the first?"

"Well… no."

I grinned at his uneasiness; the assumption didn't bother me at all, which, quite honestly, was a little surprising. Once upon a time the statement would have perturbed me to no end, but I found now that I truly didn't care. After all, it was the only logical conclusion to come to.

"Did you think that Aurore was a man?" I asked causally, trying to hide the amusement in my voice. He shrugged and the skin beneath his collar began to color.

"I don't know… I just sort of…" He shrugged again and downed half the contents of his mug in an attempt to cover his face. "I don't know," he muttered into the cup.

I smiled and crossed my legs (A terrible habit I ought to break myself of. My mother would faint away if she knew I was letting my body touch the back of the chair, let alone that I cross my legs…). "No, Aurore was a woman… at least, as a technicality. She was rough and plain-spoken like a man, which I expect is why she balanced me out so well. And there were many women before her and a few after. Jazz is the first of…" now it was my turn to blush a little, but thankfully Allegretto was still staring at the bottom of his cup, so he didn't see, "of that sort of love."

He didn't answer for a long time, taking his time as he finished off the cream. Somehow I got the feeling I would have my relationship with Jazz questioned even further, so I made no attempt to keep the tête-à-tête going. After a while he set down the mug and looked directly at me, now more curious than anything else. "Did you… did you like Jazz when you first saw him?"

"Of course! He was helping to save us from a wrongful incarceration; what was there to dislike?"

He reddened further. I knew I ought not to torture the poor boy, but he so rarely let me see any reaction from him at all that it was hard to refrain. "That's not what I mean." He paused, and I simply waited for him to go on.

"Oh?"

"Were you… y-you know, in love with him?"

I leaned back further in my chair, and put my laced fingers under my chin. (Elbows on the table, too? Mother would have an absolute _fit_ if she ever found out…subtle rebellion, I suppose.) "Was it love at first sight, you mean?"

"Yeah."

I considered for a moment. "No," I admitted. "I loved him, of course, but not in that way. He was a terrific friend to me, and a wonderful protector with whom I knew all of you would be safe. I felt truly blessed to have him in my life, but that was all. It wasn't until…" I flushed a little and Allegretto smirked, "until he made his thoughts known to me that I realized I felt the same way and hadn't admitted it, even to myself."

"What did he tell you?"

I gave him a dry smile that asked '_wouldn't you like to know?' _but answered him anyway. "Do you recall when you and I had an argument, and I got up and left the house?" He nodded, obviously not keen on remembering. That was all a long time ago, and I held nothing against him, but I understood it wasn't a comfortable subject. "I was so angry that I lost my head for a while, and ended up finding myself stuck in the pouring rain, unsure of where I was or how to get back home. It was stupid of me, especially considering the fact that I was already very ill, but I was at a complete loss and I spent hours wandering around in the cold, trying to think of which direction I had come from. The climbing fever didn't help, and after a while I just sat down under a tree and tried to wait out the storm. I must have passed out at some point, because Jazz was there when I woke up, yelling at me."

"Yeah, I remember he was pretty mad when he got you home. He was about ready to rip my head off for making you go out there in the first place."

"Well, needless to say, regaining consciousness only to find your friend standing over you screaming isn't a terribly comforting way to awaken. I was sick already, and terribly frightened, and I just lay there, trembling and crying and trying to tell him I was sorry.

"When he finished yelling he picked me up and… hugged me." I smiled a little. "He was crying too, and I could barely understand what he was saying."

"W-what was he saying?"

"His mouth was right next to my ear and he was whispering to me, telling me to never leave like that again. He said… he said he was afraid to lose me, especially after he had lost me once already. He said he couldn't stand the thought of leaving so many things left unsaid. And then, before I could open my mouth to reply, he kissed me, hard, and pushed me up against the tree I had slept under."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. There were a million thoughts flying through my head, but none of them translated into motion of any sort. I was so perplexed; one minute I was afraid for my safety, the next I was having my mouth ravaged by the man I had been afraid of. I had no idea what the proper etiquette was for the situation, so I just did nothing." I stopped and shook my head. "No, that's not entirely true. I moaned when he pushed me back even harder and the tree bark started digging into me. I guess that dragged him back to his senses, because he stopped suddenly and looked away, mumbling into my ear, 'You're burning, let's get you home.'"

Allegretto laughed. "Really?" I nodded.

"Didn't you wonder why we avoided each other like the plague after that?"

"Well, yeah, but…" he shrugged, "I thought Jazz was just still mad at you for running away."

"I'm sure that was part of it, but not the whole reason. I didn't know _what _had happened, and Jazz was angry at himself for letting it happen, and neither of us really wanted to talk about it. After a while, I even started to wonder if I had just imagined the whole thing; maybe it had all been some fever-induced hallucination that my brain had made up. But every once in a while I would catch him looking side longed at me, and I knew I hadn't dreamt it. We were afraid of each other, but… it wasn't really the other that we feared so much as ourselves, our own emotions that had yet to be decrypted. I was forced to examine my feelings, and I started to realize that he meant more to me than I thought. Maybe a lot more."

"You were in love with him."

"Yes. Madly, madly in love, without ever having known it. He meant the world to me, and I was the last one to get the memorandum." I gave him another smile that he didn't return. "I guess Jazz must have felt the same way when I… died, and he was thrown into these emotions that he hadn't known he was in possession of."

"So, like…. What did you do when you… realized?"

I laughed aloud and moved to take my cold cup of tea in one hand. "I told him, of course."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"W-what did... I mean… how? What did you say to him?"

I thought for a moment and sipped my tea. "For a long time I still wasn't sure how I felt or if I actually wanted to_ act_ on those feelings. One night… hm," I chuckled, shifting in my seat as I recalled that midnight encounter. "One night I woke up from a dream and I just _knew_. I knew what I wanted and I knew that I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't mistaken. So… I got up and went into Jazz's room-"

"In the middle of the night?"

"Yes, one AM, sleepless and only half-dressed, I went to his room and didn't even knock. He was asleep in the bed on the other side of the room, and I…" I stopped, feeling the heat rushing to my face, and Allegretto leaned forward the tiniest bit, intent on my story. "I got on the bed, on top of him, and kissed him."

"Did you wake him up first?"

I shook my head. "No. I didn't even do that. I just… got on top of him and found his mouth." I stifled a laugh, remembering the look on Jazz's face. "His eyes fairly flew open, but he didn't push me off. In fact, after a minute, he kissed me back." I smiled. "I told him I loved him in between kisses, and he said the same back to me."

"So did you guys, like, start dating after that?"

I stifled another, much louder laugh and started choking on my cold tea. Allegretto waited patiently for me to find my voice again. "Uh-um, no, that's not… exactly how it happened."

"What? Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing, I just… didn't realize your mind worked that way."

"What _way_? What are you talking about?"

I shook my head and took a deep breath, still coughing slightly. "Things moved a whole lot faster than that, Retto." I brought the tea cup up to my face in an effort to hide my expression and slightly crazed smile. "A _whole lot _faster."

He looked at me, obviously confused. "I don't get it."

"There really was no dating period, Allegretto." I leaned forward and lowered my voice, although I was sure no one could hear. "We slept together that night."

His eyes widened as though he couldn't believe what I was telling him. "_That night_?" I nodded. "You've got to be kidding!"

"We didn't talk about it or anything. There was no discussion of feelings beyond those three words. It was simply… natural, like there was nothing else in the world that would be right. And it _was_, it was right, and I've never regretted a minute of it."

"Wasn't it… awkward? I mean, you guys had been 'together' for all of ten minutes, right?"

I considered. "Yes and no. What you have to understand, Allegretto, is that we had been 'together' for months. We had been 'together' almost since we had met, but neither of us _realized _it. That night was less an introduction to those feelings than it was a _confession_ of them. It only seemed fitting that we confess them all."

He looked away and I saw him swallow a lump in his throat. Another intimate question. "Did it hurt…? I mean, the… the…" He trailed off, and I smiled. Another question that ought to have bothered me and yet somehow didn't. I did, however, entertain the momentary whim to be peeved that he assumed I was on bottom, but quickly dismissed it. He was right, after all.

"He was gentle," was all I said, and Allegretto turned three shades of scarlet. It can't he healthy to blush so many times in one day.

"Th-that's good," he murmured, looking away. I laughed.

"Allegretto, you shouldn't ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to."

"I _did _want to know, I just…" he paused, and an unwilling smile crossed his lips. "Yeah, you're right."

"You're used to people giving you vague euphemisms in the place of answers, hm?" He nodded silently. "Unfortunately, I typically don't give such responses. If you ask me a question, I will do my best to answer it, not avoid it."

"You're weird that way, you know."

"Am I?"

"Most people try to confuse you so much that you forgot what you asked to begin with. I'd think someone as proper as you would be a lot more… you know… reserved. Especially around kids and stuff."

I nodded in agreement. "I try not to treat you any differently than I would an adult, and sometimes that means giving you the _whole _truth, rather than just the parts I'd like you to know."

"Not even Jazz does that."

"Well, Jazz dapples in much darker matters than I do. The facts about my love life are far different than those about war and death and famine."

He paused. "You really love him, don't you?"

"Yes, I really do."

"Do anything for him?"

"Yes, and he for me, I'm sure."

He cast his eyes back to the floor. "Do you… do you think me and Polka will ever be like that someday?"

I smiled and resisted the urge to put my hand out to him. I should at least attempt not to humiliate the poor boy. "Yes."

"But, you know, we're really different. She… she's like my polar opposite."

"Jazz and I aren't that much alike, either." He glanced up at me, and my smile widened. "Think about it. One of us is the fearless leader of the Andantino Rebellion, whom thousands of people have sworn to follow into battle and even into the grave. The other one is a sickly pianist who was too cowardly even to join the uprising in his own country, and who can't go a whole day without someone telling him he's insane. What do we have in common?" I waited for an answer of some sort, but when I got none (thankfully he neglected the obvious trait we share…) I persisted. "Allegretto, let me be the first to tell you that _anything_ is possible when two people love each other. Love is one of those things that will always be there when everything else starts falling down around your ears. It is the only thing that can carry on regardless of time and space and all those other things that keep us from being together."

"You don't get it, though. Polka is selfless and kind and brilliant and all that stuff that I'm not. At least you and Jazz are both smart and talented; you never had this kind of problem."

I emptied the tea cup and set it back on the table carefully, trying to think of a reply. "The philosopher Plato says love was born of Poros and Penia – Plenty and Poverty."

"What is _that _supposed to mean?"

"Love always comes from between opposites. That's what makes it interesting. You balance each other, protect each other, bring to the one what the other lacks. You make each other whole."

"Yeah?"

I nodded, and he smiled - maybe the first honest smile he'd given me all day. "Thanks," he murmured, and stood up. "Thanks a lot." Then he walked out the door and left me alone in the room again. All I could do was shake my head and go back to sweeping the fireplace.

Oh, I'm tired! I never knew how much work it took to sooth a lover's troubled heart. I suppose I'll go off to bed now, and maybe actually _sleep_ tonight.

If all goes well, Jazz says he'll be home in eleven days! I believe I'll begin a countdown.


	3. Thank You to Bourree

Just a short piece I wrote for our recently deceased gerbil, and for the baby brother I had to console. I don't know if it will make him feel any better, but at least now I can prove that I was thinking about him.

I love you, Nick.

Rest In Peace, Smokey.

* * *

**Why do things die?**

August 7 – Friday

Poor Salsa. Her hamster, Bourree, died this morning or sometime last night. To be honest, I'm surprised he lived as long as he did. The way she treats him - carrying him around and letting him loose in the house and forever forgetting to feed him - I would have thought the poor fellow would have been dead within his first month under Salsa's sporadic care. March seems to have been keeping an eye out for him, though, and he survived a little over a year before he died of starvation (March has been recently banned from Salsa's room, due to the mysterious disappearance of a certain pirate hat. Said hat was later recovered under Salsa's bed, but it seems the hamster was the one to pay the price for the red head's absentmindedness and hot temper.).

She came to the kitchen this afternoon while I was eating lunch alone (everyone else had already eaten), carrying the poor animal out in front of her.

"Frederic, Bourree is sick," she said, handing him to me. The wretched thing was already cold. "Can you fix him?"

I looked down at the limp animal and back up to her anxious face. "Salsa, I…" Her eyes were bright with tears, and I had to stop, not having the heart to go on. "I'm sorry, little one, I don't think I can."

The tears began to roll down. "What?"

"I don't think I can fix him."

"But… but… why not? You can fix all of us when we're sick!"

"Salsa, he must have been sick for too long; I can't help him anymore." Gently I took out my handkerchief and wrapped the tiny body in it.

"Y-you mean he's dead?"

I nodded. "I'm afraid so, little one." She broke out sobbing, and after a moment I draped my arm around her and pulled her closer. She stumbled forward and I lifted her into my lap, where she promptly hid her face against me, clinging to my jacket and weeping into the crook of my shoulder. It was a rather awkward moment: in one hand I had a heart-broken, blubbering elf, and in the other I held a lifeless hamster, holding them both to me while my plate of food cooled on the table. But to be honest I really didn't mind; this was part of being a father, after all.

"I d-don't _want_ him to be dead, though!" She sobbed, burying her running nose into my lapel. The thought crossed my mind that I would need to wash the jacket after this.

"I know, little one, I know." I rocked her back and forth, my arm still firmly around her shaking shoulders. "We don't always get to choose, though." She didn't say anything, and the only sound for a moment was that of her sniffing. "Sometimes things like this happen without our permission." Often, actually, seeing as I can't remember the last tragedy that first begged my acquiescence… but I wasn't about to tell her that.

"Do you want me to help you bury him?" I whispered after another minute of silence. She nodded, whimpering softly. "Okay, c'mon. Why don't you come help pick out a spot for him?"

I stood up and she slid reluctantly off my lap, still clinging to my sleeve with one hand. I hadn't even realized she was holding on to the ruffles of my shirt until she was leading me along the hall behind her.

We picked a spot under an orange Dahlia bush and had a tiny little funeral. She took the motionless animal carefully from my hands and placed him in the shallow hole I had dug with a tenderness I didn't know she possessed, crying silently all the while. I let the poor thing keep the handkerchief - not that I would have wanted it back.

"I'm really sorry, Bourree," she murmured, kneeling over him as I scooped the earth back over the minuscule body. "I didn't mean for you to die. I…" her voice cracked, "I sure am glad I got to have you, though. You were lots of fun." I straightened back up, brushing the soil off my clothes, and she continued to look down at the mound of freshly turned ground. I gave her another half hug, but she didn't look up at me.

"Are you alright?" She nodded, regardless of the new tears streaming down her face.

"Yeah. Just… just go away for a while, 'kay?" She pushed me away half-heartedly, and I squeezed her shoulders once before letting go.

"Okay. I expect I will be in the kitchen if you change your mind." Another wordless nod was the only response I received.

She never did come back to talk to me, but she found me just now before going to bed so that she could say goodnight – and thank you. Have you ever heard Salsa say thank you, Jazz? I don't think I ever have up until today. It gave me a strange feeling that was joyous and bittersweet at the same time; I was amazed at having dragged those words willingly out of her, but I was sorry her pet had to die first. I am glad that she felt she could come to me, though, and I am glad I was able to help in some small way.

Goodnight, world. I suppose little Bourree will be in my prayers tonight, if for no other reason than because he brought Salsa just that much closer to me. I hope her sturdy heart doesn't stay broken for too long.

Maybe this will convince her to take better care of her animals. I doubt it, but maybe.

Eight days until Jazz comes home!


	4. Everyday Miracles

All right, I'm a little high on pain meds right now, so I don't know how good this piece is. We're gonna give it a shot, though! ;. ) Enjoy.

I don't know if Chopin was religious, but I know the Polish in general are, so that's what I'm going off of. And yes, he had THREE sisters, although many people think he only had two - Ludwika, Izabela, and Emilia (the youngest, Emilia, died when she was fourteen.)

*Edit* Someone pointed out to me that Chopin was, in fact, an agnostic. Since this chapter is more focused on spirituality rather than religion, however, I think I'm going to keep it here.

* * *

** Does God exist?**

August 9 – Sunday

It only seems fitting that my first question about God – and I suspect there shall be many more – comes on a Sunday.

I was spread out on the lawn, lying under the wide oak tree in the back yard, enjoying the late afternoon sun while I read one of the old doggerel books Polka had bought me as a present; poetry for the poet of the piano, she said. I must admit, I still believe the touch of the keys is more expressive than a stroke of the pen, but the sonnets were lovely all the same. The language was old-fashioned - out of date, if you will - just like me. There was something rather comforting about reading words that failed to take advantage of contractions (a lazy habit I realize I, myself am starting to pick up), and I suppose I was either utterly engrossed in the sentences on the page, or I fell asleep, for when I looked around me I found the sun was setting. Beat and Allegretto were a little ways off, the older apparently showing Beat how to aim using a target painted on an old tree stump for the objective. Salsa hurled insults at them both from a safe distance. March was talking with Polka, and between them was a basket full of yarn and small cloth dolls. I wondered if they were making clothing for the little toys. Viola must have stayed inside, for even when I strained my neck I couldn't see her. I sighed and transferred my book over to my left hand. The twilight was beautiful, and I eventually shifted my gaze from the figures playing on the lawn to the skies, which had been painted brilliant hues of pink and violet and deep burgundy by the dying embers of the sunlight.

"Pretty, isn't it?" I glanced back to see March coming towards me, holding a doll in one hand.

"Lovely." She lifted my arm up and tucked herself under it, settling down comfortably next to me. I smiled and hugged her.

"Who is this?" I asked, plucking gently at the doll.

She grinned and her cheeks seemed to color slightly. "Toccata," she murmured. "Polka was helping me make her a dress." So I was right.

"And did Toccata get her dress?"

"Not yet. It takes a lot of work, you know."

I chuckled. "No, I'm afraid I don't; baby clothing has never been a specialty of mine."

"Baby?"

"That's what she is, correct? Your baby?"

"Everyone calls her a toy."

"It doesn't matter what everyone else says. What do you think?"

She smiled up at me. "I like 'baby' more."

"Well, then, baby it is." Yes, I had three sisters. I know the proper terminology.

"What have you been reading?" she asked, looking at the book in my other hand.

"Last time Polka went to the market she saw this poetry book and thought I might enjoy it."

"Is it any good?"

"Mm-hm. I have to remember to thank her for it later."

She snuggled up against me, following my eyes up to the darkening horizon. "It should be a calm night tonight."

"Why do you say that?"

"When the sunrise is red it's usually really stormy that day, but when the sunset is red, then it's really calm." She paused. "At least, that's how it was in the forest."

"That's good. We could use a nice quiet night for once."

She giggled. "Does the wind keep you up at night, too?"

"Yes, especially when it's raining. You would think I'd have gotten used to it after a while, but I suppose not."

"Gotten used to it?"

"Well, when Aurore and I lived in Spain, it would rain almost every night, and I would lie awake and listen to the rain whipping around the house and wonder if the room would flood at high tide the next morning. Of course it never did, but I was always afraid it would. I kept all of my papers in a stack on top of the piano so if by chance it _did_ flood, I would know where they were. It seems silly now, but now when it rains at night that's all I can think about: where did I put that last piece I was working on? It isn't on the piano."

She nodded thoughtfully as best she could from under my arm, trying to communicate that she understood, and we were quiet for a minute, watching the sun slip beyond the mountain tops. "I love watching the sunset. Everything seems so peaceful right before it gets dark."

"It certainly makes for a convenient time to reflect on the day," I agreed.

"Do you… do you ever watch the sun go down and doubt if it will ever come back up again?"

I paused, taken aback by the sudden insight into her mind. "I suppose I'd never thought about it before."

"When we were little Salsa would always tease me and tell me the sun wouldn't come up anymore if we weren't good. I still wonder sometimes if what she said was right."

I think I would have laughed if her she hadn't been so serious; I realized after a moment just how much truth was hidden in the words. "You told me once that the agogos saved the human race because we are capable of hope, correct?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the sun feels the same way."

She glanced up at me and I smiled, meeting her eyes. "You believe that?"

"Like I said, I haven't ever thought about it before. It certainly seems possible, though, doesn't it?"

"I… I guess so."

I laughed and shifted her weight slightly. "You don't have to agree with me, little one. What do you think?"

"I don't know…" She pulled away somewhat so she could look me straight in the face before moving back up against me. "Do you think God has anything to do with it?"

"God?" She nodded. "Well, I think there are two kinds of gods: the higher being that people believe created humanity and the world, and the one whose name Allegretto uses when he's angry. Which were you referring to?"

She giggled, and I couldn't help but smile. She has such a sweet laugh. "The first one."

"I don't see why God couldn't bring up the sun every day, but that still begs the question of the motivation behind it."

"Yes, I guess that's true." She turned her face and nestled it against me for a moment before moving again to look out on the dimming skies. Their affections baffle me sometimes. "Do you believe in God, then, Frederic?" Then she smiled and shook her head. "Father."

"Do I trust in one? Yes. Do I have proof of one? No. At least, none which would hold up in anyone's eyes but a believer's."

"Like what?"

I gestured with my free hand. "There is such beauty all around us, such exquisite examples of miracles that occur every day – many of which we take for granted – that once you begin to look for God, God becomes hard to ignore." She put her cheek against my chest, and I could feel her brow furrowing as she considered my words.

"What kind of miracles?"

I held the book closed and pointed with it to the sliver of red sun still visible above the horizon. "The sun comes up every morning unbidden, the birds sing in the trees, the ocean tides rise and fall, the stars shine, the world spins, people love and hate and hope and fear and birth and kill and die, and life goes on just the same. There is wind that sweeps over the plains. There is water that laps over the rocks. There is moonlight and sunlight and starlight to illuminate the darkness, and shadows to relieve us when the realities get too harsh. Everything we need is provided to us from the earth we live on; I look at the ground and sky and am filled with such awe that I need no more proof of God's existence."

"You sound like the people in the forest."

"Maybe that means the people in the forest are on to something." I chuckled. "Or perhaps it simply means we are both crazy."

"No, I think you're right. But…" I looked down at her to see her chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"But what, little one?" I asked, and she shrugged.

"I wish I had proof," was her only answer. I squeezed her shoulder.

"There is no proof, March. There never will be. You can bring all the evidence you want to the table, all the facts, all the science, all the philosophy… you will never have a case so strong that you can't find a little string somewhere and unravel the whole thing. What you have to do is listen to what your heart tells you, and believe that it won't lead you astray, no matter which direction it might take you."

She was quiet for a long time, and we sat together and watched as the stars came out one by one. Finally she sighed and leaned her head back against the bark of the tree. "My heart says God must be real."

"Well, then."

She giggled and moved out from under my arm, standing up and merely ogling at the diamond-studded sky for a minute before laughing again and turning to offer her hand down to me. I took it and she helped me to my feet. (How old am I that I need an eight-year-old elf to help me stand? I shall blame the fact that I'd been sitting in the same position for hours…) We walked into the house together to find everyone else already set for bed. I located Polka and thanked her for the book, and we talked for a while before Beat interrupted to show us a new photograph of his (quite good, actually. I have to remember and have him show Jazz.). One by one, everybody said their goodnights and drifted off to their respective rooms until it was only myself left, sitting in the kitchen, setting things right before I went to sleep.

"Father?" I heard a little voice behind me and looked over to see March standing in the doorway, dressed in her nightgown.

"You should be asleep, little one."

"I had to tell you something first, though."

"What would that be?"

"I love you."

I smiled as I dried my hands. "What made you think of that all of a sudden?"

She yawned and ran a tired hand over her eyes. "Love is one of those everyday miracles, isn't it?"

"I believe so, yes."

"I was lying in bed thinking about those and… I realized I've never told you that before. So, I love you, Frederic. I just wanted you to know that."

I set the towel down on the counter and walked towards her, wrapping her in a half hug. "I love you, too, little one. Now let's get you to bed." I took her hand and led her down the hall to her own room before coming back up to mine. I felt the need to write everything down before I slept, although for once not because the ideas will trouble my dreams if I don't; rather, I want to remember the details later. (Someday she'll be a moody teenager, and I'll be glad to have written record of her affection.).

Faith is one thing Jazz never speaks to me about, and I rather wish he would. I enjoy hearing the thought process that flows through a person's mind as they grapple with their beliefs; it is a something that I go through almost daily.

It is through wrestling with myself that I come to peace with my God. When you've lived most of your life in fear of dying, you make your peace _every night_, no matter how late up you have to stay. I am glad March has found her peace for the evening. Talking to her, I believe I have found mine, as well. Now I can sleep.

Six days.


	5. Nightlight

All the information I have on Chopin's life comes from the biography Life of Chopin by Franz Liszt. Any inconsistencies are probably my own fault, since I don't actually own the book, I've only read it online. :'. ( I'll have to ask for a real book for my birthday.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

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**Why are we afraid of the dark?**

August 16 – Sunday

I apologize for not writing sooner (am I truly apologizing to the pages of a journal? One could tell I haven't slept well the past few days.), but during the week there was honestly nothing about which to write. I have worked on a new composition, helped to weed the vegetable garden (did I mention that we began a garden earlier this year? We only have some large pumpkins growing right now; by the autumn I believe they will be enormous.), suffered through another summer thunderstorm. March's doll got her dress, Beat made a bull's-eye on his painted target, Viola tried to teach me how to make garlic bread and I managed to burn it. Thankfully Viola found it amusing and she only laughed and told me I could burn water if I tried hard enough.

Jazz and Falsetto came home yesterday, the highlight of my week, and I would have written last night except I was… busy. (My face is burning. I am glad no one else can read this.) This entry will be short, as Jazz is already asleep and I am eager to share the warm bed with him – not to mention I don't want to wake him with the glow of the candle; years of being on call every hour of every day has left him a light and restless sleeper. Before I retire, though, I wanted to write down a conversation that transpired this morning.

Last night, Salsa got hold of the fact that Beat, as she puts it, 'sleeps with a nightlight.' Indeed, on the nights when I tuck him in, Beat often asks if I will leave the fire burning, as he has a fear of the dark. I can never say no, although I make sure the flames are well-tamed to ensure we won't wake up and find the hideout ablaze. This has been going on since we moved into this house and he got a room to himself, and I've never told anyone else; he was so distraught when he informed me of his phobia that I had to promise I wouldn't let the others know before I could get him to stop crying. Apparently word has gotten around, though, (something about a slip of Viola's tongue…) and when Jazz and I came down to breakfast Salsa was certainly looking high and mighty, waving her knife at Beat.

"Only babies use _nightlights_," she jeered, and Beat gave her his most fearsome pout.

"I am _not_ a baby! I'm the exact same age as you!"

"Yeah, but I-"

I pulled up a chair and interrupted. "What is this about, now?" Jazz set down a plate of pancakes in front of me, and I whispered a thank-you as the two began arguing again.

"She called me a baby!"

"Only cuz he's afraid of the dark!"

"I am not!"

"Yeah, huh! I heard Viola last night saying that you-"

"Enough!" My voice was soft, but they both fell quiet. "What's so wrong about having something you're afraid of?"

Polka nodded, adding, "We're all afraid of something."

"Not me!" Salsa threw her arm up in the air in a sign of triumph, and I leaned over and gently pried the butter knife out of her fist. She was going to take someone's eye out.

"Don't be silly, little one. Everyone has some fear or other."

"W-what are you scared of, Frederic?" Beat asked, staring at me with wide eyes.

I sighed and set the confiscated knife down on the table. "Asphyxiation," I muttered.

"What?"

"Being suffocated." I had a sudden memory of myself attempting to climb the staircases back in Nohant, sometimes not even reaching the top before the extreme tightness in my chest forced me to stop, gasping for breath or simply collapsing. I repressed a shudder.

Salsa rolled her eyes. "Well, yeah, but at least that's not a stupid fear; being suffocated could actually _kill _you. The darkness isn't going to do anything!"

"The mind is trained to be more alert in situations when use of one of the senses is lost, gloominess being one of those." I glanced back at Jazz and added, "Jazz is afraid of the dark."

"Really?"

"No way! Jazz isn't scared of anything."

I hoped he wouldn't mind too much at being dragged into this. He paused his eating and looked at me, startled. I caught his eye momentarily before he straightened up to face the open-mouthed, red-faced children, nodding while he hurried to swallow his mouthful of breakfast.

"Mh-hm. I have been most of my life, ever since I was young." He has told me the stories of being trapped alone in the darkness of the orphanage, waiting for the soldiers that would come and force him into Forte's militia, clawing at the locked door and begging to be let out. I still wake on occasion to hear him crying, and turn on the lights to find him covered in bloody, self-inflicted scratches as he whimpers to some long-dead matron that he promises he'll be good if they will only open the door. No, I don't hold Beat's fear against him, irrational as it may seem; I know what the darkness can do to a person.

"I _still_ think that's a stupid thing to be scared of," Salsa grumbled, though her voice sounded less certain. Jazz only nodded.

"We're frightened of the things that have some meaning to us. You probably have no reason to be afraid of the dark. Beat and I do."

Beat nodded vigorously, his mouth full of pancake. "Uh-uh, yeah."

No one spoke for several moments until Allegretto broke the silence. "So… what do you do?"

Jazz looked at him. "I don't know what you mean."

"Do you, like, sleep with the light on?"

"Not anymore. I found a much better solution." Without warning he yanked my chair back towards him, and I yelped indignantly, letting my fork clatter to the floor. Jazz only snickered in my ear and put a lazy hand around my waist so that I couldn't wriggle out from his grasp. Obviously he wasn't happy about having his fears exposed in front of everybody. Then he flicked the hair out of his eyes and smirked up at everyone, as though daring them to say anything. After a moment he let me go, and I dragged my seat back to where it had been before. Knowing it wouldn't do any good to complain - he would only laugh at me - I simply picked up my fork and resumed eating.

"Shouldn't you wash that first?" he asked, the satisfaction obvious in his voice, and I turned to face the rogue amber eyes.

"I keep this floor clean enough you could eat off it," I sniffed, and turned back to my plate as I heard Viola's laughter join in with Jazz's.

"It's true, he does!"

I could only roll my eyes and fight back my own reluctant smile. The children looked at one another uncertainly, not quite sure what was going on, but they made no comment. I wasn't angry, as I'm sure the children thought, and Jazz knew it. I was simply… flustered. We've been together several months now, almost a year, and I still haven't gotten used to his very _open _signs of affection. It doesn't bother me enough to tell him to stop (although he probably wouldn't anyway), but it is sufficient to make me blush, which only makes him laugh harder and tell me how adorable I am when I blush.

I heard him scoot his chair closer to mine, and he bent down to whisper in my ear. "And are you blushing?" Some days I swear he can read my mind.

"No," I hissed back, but I didn't raise my head, and he chuckled.

"Are you sure?" I shrugged my shoulders to force him away and stood up, settling my dishes in the sink (I'm the one who will wash them anyway, what does it matter _when_?) and excusing myself under my breath before hurrying out of the room.

"Oh, good, Jazz, now you made him mad."

"He'll be alright – he rinsed his plate before he left. Can't be too upset."

I wanted to go outside, but instead I made my way up the stairs to the attic bedroom they've been kind enough to let me turn into a study; the emotions Jazz gives me often leads me back to my piano in an attempt to sort them out. I sat down and began to play, some upbeat polonaise that echoed the beat of my heart in my throat. I fiddled with the notes until I found a tune that came naturally. It sounded red, the bright, blushing red of embarrassment and strawberry jam and shared sunsets and being in love. I heard the squeak of hinges, and I murmured something unintelligible in greeting, knowing full well that it was Jazz standing in the doorway behind me (I rather wish that room had a lock on it of some sort, but they've been too kind already; I'll never ask for one.). I wondered if he would say anything. After a moment he came up behind me and wrapped both arms about my middle, stooping until his chin rested on the spot where my collar bone meets my shoulder, a strange and dreadfully sensitive place that only he knows about.

"What are you playing?"

I shrugged. The extreme closeness was making the stuffy room hotter than was comfortable, and I have no doubt that he knew it.

"I don't know."

"Anything that comes to mind."

"Mhm. That's how music works."

He let go of me and sat down on the piano bench. Without even meaning to I laid my head down against his broad shoulder, and he chuckled and put up a hand to hold me there while I continued to play.

"I am sorry. I didn't intend to embarrass you."

"Me neither. Don't worry about it."

I sighed and closed my eyes.

"You know, I wasn't kidding about you being my nightlight."

"You certainly sounded as though you were."

"But I wasn't." His grip on me tightened, and I sighed softly as his mouth found my neck. "You are the light of my life. You always have been."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "I love you, too." And I buried my nose in his chaotic dark hair.

For all the time we've spent together, all the sleepless nights and early mornings, he's never once said 'I love you.' It doesn't bother me, really. He prefers to show me, prove his affection through his actions rather than his words. Someday I'm going to make him say it, but for now I don't mind.

So, here it is midnight, and I keep pausing my writing to turn and gaze at him, peacefully submerged in the many folds of the quilt. It is rather painful, looking at his face. For all that he chastises me about not taking proper care of myself, he looks as though he is forgetting to take his own advice; the circles under his eyes tell me his rest is more disturbed than mine, and he looks thinner, more bedraggled than when he left. Although there is still rivalry amongst the kingdoms, the war between Forte and Baroque more or less ended when count Waltz was defeated; what Jazz has been trying to settle is the enmity felt by Forte's people for one another. He hopes he can settle this dispute before it begins a civil war, for which he shall feel responsible. After all, _we _are the ones who ruined Forte's only form of government, corrupted as it may have been, leaving them suddenly alone in the streets to fend for themselves, and I suppose it is only natural for the ensuing poverty to have bred hostility.

Jazz tells me keeping peace is almost as exhausting as making war.

Of course, I am unclear on the whole story; in point of fact, most of what I know about the whole affair I wheedled out of Falsetto. Jazz all but refuses to speak to me on the subject. He says delicate ears weren't made for such crude themes as combat and politics, and tells me to go back to my piano. I suppose I ought to be appreciative: I am aware that the 'delicate' aspect was meant to be a compliment, and that he is only trying to protect me from the demons at whose hands he suffers. However, I wish he would realize I can bear pain just as well as he, and that seeing him hurt is more ache to my soul than the stories of a thousand wars. But he doesn't, or if he does he won't acknowledge it, so I must let him suffer alone until I can find a way to help banish the darkness and prove myself worthy of the title of 'nightlight.'

How lovely; he calls my name in his sleep. I need to go now, for even if I can't fight the darkness for him, I can at least let him hold on to me while he struggles.

Good night.


	6. Atticus, What's Rape?

Once again, I'm drugged up (this time on sleeping meds. Yay.) so I'm sure it's awful; I didn't even bother to proof read it. I had to get this piece up tonight, though - the author Harper Lee's birthday is today. Subconsciously, I realized I've based Frederic very much on the character of Atticus Finch, so this chapter is my homage to Harper and Atticus. I plan to re-write it later, so I'm open to any suggestions or criticism. :. )

Happy birthday, Lee!

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**What is rape?**

August 19 – Wednesday

It's just me alone now, for the first time all day, if not longer, and the respite honestly couldn't have come at a better time. It was a very long night – I didn't sleep at all – which blended into an equally long day, only made longer by the fact that I have had no rest. Viola is angry at me and angrier at Jazz, (although he has no idea why she is glaring at him from across the room) I lied to Jazz for the first time this morning, and I had the joy of trying to explain to Beat what exactly forced sexual intercourse is without actually using any of those words. I want nothing more than to crawl into the bed and stay there for the rest of the afternoon, but seeing as I don't know when my next private chance to write will be, I suppose I will put everything down now; I am not keen on having Jazz over my shoulder asking continually what it is I'm saying. He can't know what I'm saying.

And so, with these next words I recognize that I can never let my lover get hold of this book:

Jazz beat me senseless last night, and he doesn't remember a minute of it. I have already sworn to myself that I won't tell him; with any luck he will never know what things he does while under the ghastly influence of that alcohol he abuses.

Of course, I feel I have no right to wallow in self-pity. The drinking problem is not a new one, although it is one that is getting worse, and I knew that he often drank in excess when our relationship began. However, he has never been _quite_ so violent towards me as he was last night, and… I don't want to continue. Perhaps I would rather have yesterday's events haunt my dreams for the weeks to come than have to relive it all again right now, in black and white writing. On the other hand, perhaps it is better to realize the entire situation while I am safe and alone, with everyone gone off fishing with the leftover worms from our most recent rainstorm. (Somehow I doubt Polka and Beat are actually fishing.)

I pray this will help calm my frayed nerves:

Jazz has never physically violated me before. I was afraid, it hurt, there was this hysterical look in his eyes that I had never seen before, but when I tried to move away he grabbed a handful of my hair and shoved me up against the wall so hard I could feel blood running down from under my scalp. Every time I made a noise he would push my head down a little harder, hissing insults. Soon I found the sense to simply hold very still and let him do whatever he wanted, and by the end it almost felt pleasant. When it was over he turned me around and kissed me, told me he loved me, told me to have sweet dreams, and then he let go and allowed me to slump to the floor. By the time I dared to look up again he was passed out on the bed. Although I was still crying uncontrollably (when I _began_ crying I'm not quite sure), I managed to dress him and myself and wiped the blood off the walls and dusty floor.

It wasn't long before I realized that the wound in my head wasn't going to close on its own, and I didn't have the energy left to use magic of any sort; I was on the verge of unconsciousness myself, both from the searing pain and immense exhaustion that steeped my body. There was a seldom used first-aid kit under the sink in the kitchen downstairs, I knew, and I picked myself up and dragged myself down to find it before retiring back to the nearest bathroom. It was almost dawn, and I figured the best thing would be to simply make myself look well and then stay awake, maybe make breakfast, and do my best to prove to everyone that they had all _imagined_ the sickening sound of bone cracking against wood.

The gash was ugly, taking up most of my left temple, jagged at the edges although it wasn't terribly deep. I sighed and took out the needle, threading it carefully before poking it through one edge of the skin and crossing it through to the other, trying to steady my hands as I stared at my reflection and attempted to decide which direction was which – everything is backwards when you work from a mirror. Suddenly there was a hard knock on the door that made me jump and almost drop the needle.

"Uh, yes?"

"Frederic? Are you okay?"

I muttered some curse under my breath; it was Viola, admittedly the only person I can't lie to and get away with it. Doubtless she had been woken up by the noise.

"Yes, I'm quite alright, thank you. Why?" I couldn't think of anything better to say, but I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that they had been the wrong ones.

"Frederic, let me in." There was a frantic undertone to her voice as she rammed her shoulder against the closed door. "Frederic, _now_."

"I am almost done, Viola. I will be out in a minute."

"Let me _in_!" She threw herself against the door again, so hard it shuddered.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

"Yes! There's blood all over out here, and the first aid kit's gone! What the hell is going on?"

"I… _nothing_. Everything is fine, go back to bed."

"You're a big liar and you know it. Let me in!"

Realizing I was cornered, I sighed loud enough for her to hear and answered, "Alright, just a moment." Hurriedly I located the scissors and cut the thin web that held the needle connected to my skin before shoving everything back in the white box. I took out my handkerchief to cover the half-stitched wound and opened the door. She elbowed her way inside as soon as the lock turned, grabbing me by the shoulders as though afraid I would run away. Run where? There was only one exit, and she was blocking it.

"What happened?" She demanded even before she had seen the injury. She pulled my hand away from my face and scanned me hurriedly, turning my head from side to side, looking for more damage. There was none, at least none that was visible to her, and she let her hand slide up to push my blood-encrusted hair away. "Did Jazz do this?" She knows about his… violent tendencies, too.

"It was an accident, Viola, I assure you. It's nothing to worry about."

"Like _hell_ it was an accident!"

"Hush, Viola, you'll wake the whole house."

"I can't believe they're not already awake, listening to you whimper every time he bashes your head against the wall. Fucking bastard." She dug the needle out of the box and resumed what I had been doing earlier, taking out whatever helpless frustration she felt on my poor head. Her mouth tends to get away with her when she's frightened or angry, and she continued to curse under her breath as she stitched while I quietly mopped the blood out of my eyes. "What was he saying to you?"

My face reddened, and she stopped suddenly.

"What?" she snapped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. He… he was telling me to hold still or it would hurt more."

Her eyes widened. "What, was he _raping _you?"

"No," I insisted, a little too quickly, and she almost seemed to deflate, her shoulders sagging and her eyes closing part way.

"Oh, God," she moaned, leaning her forehead up against mine. "He did, didn't he? Oh, God, Frederic…" She reached for my hand and I allowed her to twine her fingers in with mine. "You don't deserve this." And with that she pulled away and finished darning the laceration with several harsher-than-necessary stitches. "You deserve better than this." She cut the thread and turned away to remake the crude medical box.

Unsure of what to say, I murmured, "I love him, Viola."

"Yeah, I know you do. I wish you didn't; you're nuts enough without being in love, too." She opened the door and walked out, leaving me to wash the copper blood away from my skin and the outside of the bathroom door. OUtside in the kitchen I found her angrily stirring a pot of oatmeal, staring out at the lifting darkness.

"Are you okay?" She nodded silently, not meeting my eyes.

"Go wake everyone up for breakfast," she muttered after a minute. I backed away and left her to her own thoughts.

I was looking over my shoulder at her, and almost tripped over the white figure sitting on the staircase. "Beat! What are you doing here?" He shrugged, and I noticed he had his knees up to his chest, something he only does when something's frightened him. I sat down beside him and he nestled to me without waiting for an invitation. He was shaking. "What's wrong, little one? Why are you awake so early?" He only shook his head and sniffled.

"I… I heard Viola down here yelling, so I came down to see what was a'matter, and she was in the bathroom talking to you, and…"

"And you heard the whole conversation." He nodded. "Oh, little one, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to listen to that." I paused, and he looked up at me. "Do you have questions?"

"A-are you okay?" I couldn't help but smile. Such raw emotions, such vague terminology, and my welfare managed to be the first thought in his mind.

"Yes, little one, thank you. I had a cut on my forehead, but Viola helped me, so now I'm alright."

"There was blood on the door."

"I know. I apologize. I didn't realize what a mess I was making. Truly, there is nothing to worry about, I promise." His features softened visibly; one thing I tell the children is that I don't make empty promises. If I swear it to you, it's true.

"Frederic?"

"Yes?"

"What's rape?"

I thought for a moment, not entirely sure how to answer. Finally I told him exactly what I had been told when I was younger: "Rape is carnal knowledge of someone by force and without consent." He cocked his head at me, and I had to smile again.

"What? I don't get it – what's 'carnal knowledge'?"

"Well, carnal means sexual or physical, so rape would mean knowing intimate things about a person sexually because of something you forced them to do." He nodded, looking at the floor. "Do you know what sexual means?" I asked softly, hoping he would say yes. I wasn't in the mood to think of another inexplicit explanation for an overt topic.

"Yeah, kinda. Allegretto tried to tell me once… he said it's what happens when you go beyond kissing."

I laughed aloud. "Beyond kissing… I must say, I've never heard that elucidation before. He is right, however."

"Is that what happened to you, Frederic? Were you raped?" I sighed and let the fingers of my right hand toy with my lapel.

"In the heat of the moment, the line between consent and lack thereof becomes rather blurred. I couldn't tell you honestly if I was raped; I lost sight of the line, and now looking back I can't distinguish whether or not it was crossed."

"I understand." He looked thoughtful. "Have you talked to Jazz about it?"

"No, Jazz is asleep. I'll speak with him later, but for now I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell anyone, even him. I would rather bring up the subject on my own terms."

He nodded. "Yeah, okay. I guess I'll see you at breakfast, then."

The meal was no quieter than usual, but Viola glared at her bowl and made sideways glances at Jazz until he finally suggested fishing to ease the tension. (I stayed here and washed dishes, which is better than hooking worms on the end of a pole any day.) When Jazz asked me if I was okay, I told him I was just fine and pulled my top hat lower so he couldn't see the scar I'd been given. It broke my heart to have to lie to him.

Thank you for listening; I am beginning to rely on this book more than I like to admit. It helps one reflect on one's thoughts, which I didn't realize I needed until just lately.

I am sorry, but I can't keep my eye open. I have to sleep, now.


	7. Anthill Legacies

**Finally! An update! :. o Sorry, I just started a new class and a DeviantART account, so I got a little side-tracked. So here's my... Cinco de Mayo present to everyone, I guess. **

**This chapter is rather long and rambly, and I'm not exactly happy with it, but maybe I would like it better if I hadn't been staring at it for the last six hours. I plan to edit it later, so if you don't like it now, visit back in a couple days! :. D**

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**Who will remember us when we're gone?**

August 20 - Thursday

I thought I would have a hard time sleeping last night - the pounding in my head combined with the uneasiness I still felt about the man lying next to me seemed to be an effective recipe for insomnia - but I had no such problems. By the time I came up Jazz was already asleep, and he looked so very _harmless_, with his slumber-peaceful features framed by wild dark hair and his fingers wrapped in the sheets where I was supposed to be… I couldn't hold anything against him at that moment. So I went over to the bed and untangled his hand gently, trying not to wake him. His breathing changed somewhat, but he didn't open his eyes, and I let go of his wrist and nestled down beside him, his face only inches from mine. Wordlessly he lifted his arm back to where it had been so that it draped across my waist; we fell asleep like that.

I was awakened by the feel of warm breath on my face, and I looked to see Jazz leaning over me, running fingers through my hair. He wasn't smiling, however, which worried me.

"What's wrong?" I murmured, trying to sit up. He held me down by the shoulder, and for a moment I was afraid he was drunk again. He must have seen me tense because his brow furrowed further.

"What did you do to yourself?" He asked, brushing curls away from the stitched wound. I didn't know what to say; I couldn't tell him the truth, but I didn't want to lie to him, either. After a moment, I realized I had no choice: I told him I had hit my head on the bookshelf when I bent down to get something. He shook his head.

"I don't think so. Do you realize how much force you'd need to cut yourself like this on a _bookshelf_?"

"You know how careless I am when I'm thinking about something else." He shook his head again, looking doubtful, but I gave him an earnest smile and he let it go, instead turning away to pick up his shirt off the floor. (I have no idea why he's so careless about his clothes. You would never find any of my shirts in a crumpled heap like that.)

"How many stitches was it?" he asked as we got dressed.

"Mm, I don't know, eight or nine, I suppose. Viola did it for me."

"Viola? Why didn't you let me help you?"

I considered telling him it was an old wound, but I knew he would never believe it. Instead I twisted the truth a little. "It was early in the morning and you were asleep. I would have done it myself, but Viola was already up and she insisted I accept her assistance. What could I say? She nearly broke down the bathroom door before I relented."

"You should have woken _me,_" he growled, frowning.

I laughed. "As though you don't have enough nightmares. No, I need to rouse you before dawn, out of sound slumber, with blood all over my face and tell you I cut myself on a _bookshelf_."

"At least I would have done a clean job."

"Oh, Jazz, you know I don't care what it looks like, and neither do you. Besides," I pulled on my top hat, "no one will ever have to see it."

He rolled his eyes and kissed me softly before he opened the door. "I wish you wouldn't make me worry."

"Make you worry? I don't believe I'm the one who is gone half the time to visit a malevolent kingdom on the verge of an all-out civil war."

"And yet I manage to come home every day unscathed, while you, on the other hand, suffer with nine stitches worth of an argument with a bookcase."

As much as I wanted to be angry, I had to laugh. The whole conversation was so altogether _queer_ there was nothing to do but laugh at it. "It would seem the bookcase is more malevolent than Forte." Jazz laughed with me, apparently for the same reason.

I helped to make breakfast this morning, and we made blueberry muffins, which I actually have tried before. Not my favorite, in all honesty, but even I had to admit that it smelled delicious, and it was a wonderful way to wake up on a (for once) bright, clear summer morning. It was so lovely outside we decided to eat out on the grass in the back garden - a sort of picnic, if you will. Viola's goats were already roaming when we came out, trying to find the best pasture for their own breakfast, and so we set a blanket down under a large oak tree where the grass was shorter due to the lack of sunlight. Although I have taken suppers out on the porch and such before, I must say I have never enjoyed myself so much as I did today. In addition to the muffins, there was plenty of milk and cream and butter, which was good as the thick bread was rather plain on its own, as well as hard-boiled eggs and juice and more or less a surfeit of fruits. The day was already hot, but I don't think any of us minded much; the shade from the tree served us well, and it was wonderful to listen to the birds singing right above our heads.

After I was finished eating (which wasn't terribly long; Jazz pesters me incessantly that I don't eat half as much as I should) I sat back and watched the black and brown sparrows flit from branch to branch, in and out of sight around the rich green leaves that weren't changing color yet. Jazz put his hand gently over mine, and I twined my fingers in his without looking down, ignoring the angry glances Viola kept giving us. At first I felt a little awkward, and all I could think of was how afraid I had been of him yesterday, how afraid I had been this morning when I thought he was intoxicated again, how I had wanted him only to go away and leave me alone. But then I felt his eyes on me, tracing the scar through the material of the hat, and I remembered the concern in his face when I woke up, the way he had held me even while he slept, the way he was holding me then. I realized at that moment that, in a sense, it had all been a nightmare, a ghost that had followed me through the darkness only to disappear with the dawn. There is no sense fretting over intangible dreams, and with a sigh I settled back further and opened my heart to enjoy the chirping in the trees and the sounds of children eating and the feel of Jazz's hand on mine.

Eventually everyone finished their meal, and, reluctant to go back inside, all adopted various games. Allegretto challenged Jazz to a duel, which I believe Allegretto lost, and Beat, Falsetto, and Salsa left to cheer them on. March went to play with her doll, and Viola was tending to one of her goats that had broken a leg, leaving only Polka and myself still seated under the oak. Polka seemed absorbed in a colony of ants that had come to carry off any bread crumbs or fruit stems we might have left, so I said nothing to her for fear of disturbing her, instead watching the fight between Retto and Jazz from where I was. Luckily they had both taken up wooden swords, or I fear Allegretto's head would no longer be attached to his body.

"They're funny little things, aren't they?" Polka murmured, almost to herself. I turned to look at her, but her head was bent so that I couldn't see her face.

"Hm?" She glanced up and smiled at me before pointing down.

"The ants, I mean."

"What makes you say that?"

"They're running around, crawling on top of each other and scuttling in little circles… but none of it really matters. No matter what they do, they're still going to die in a day or two. But they don't know that, so they just keep running."

Her face was hidden again, and I wondered what she was thinking. If she was thinking of herself. I moved over to where she was sitting, and followed her gaze down to the tiny creatures on the ground. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were wide and thoughtful.

"It's kind of sad, don't you think?" she asked, turning to look directly at me.

"Yes… and no. All things are temporary, and if one would do nothing simply because it will be gone tomorrow, one forfeits the makings of a meaningful life. I suppose the ants know that."

"Or they're just too naïve to know any better."

"It would boil down to what exactly differentiates the two."

She laid her head on my shoulder. "I wonder if they're afraid to die."

"A tad macabre, today, are you?"

She smiled. "Yeah, maybe a little. I had a bad dream last night."

"Mm, I see. You could have woken me, you know."

"Yeah, but it's okay. It just kind of… shook me, that's all."

I put a hand around her shoulder, and I could feel her trembling as she began to cry very softly. After a little while she stopped and I gave her my handkerchief to wipe her eyes. (If there is one thing I have an overabundance of, it's handkerchiefs.) She handed it back to me without meeting my gaze.

"Thank you, father. I'm sorry, I… I shouldn't cry. It's silly of me."

"Of course it isn't," I assured her.

"I just… sometimes I wonder why we're bothering, you know? I wonder if what we do really matters at all."

There was a long pause, and I glanced up for inspiration and pointed to a small spider seated in the center of translucent netting stretched between two branches. Polka followed the motion with her eyes, looking puzzled. "Do you see that spider?" She nodded. "Why does she bother spinning the web, spending hours and hours of her precious time creating it, when it would only take a harsh breeze or a careless hand to destroy her altogether?"

"Because she needs it to eat."

"She needs it to survive," I agreed. Polka only stared, so I continued, more or less rambling. "It will be her legacy someday; the only thing the world has to remember her by when she's gone. At the same time, it is just as temporary as she is. She knows that. And yet, she sits up there day after day, spinning and repairing, despite the apparent pointlessness of it all. She knows what it is to persevere, even against inevitable odds that she knows she can't trump.

"That's all we can do, in the end: build and mend our own little legacy, and hope it lives on to tell something about the person who made it."

She nodded solemnly, still looking at the spider hanging leisurely from the tree branch. "I know I… we don't have long to live, but I want to make sure our lives _mean_ something." Ah, there it is again – the mention of fact that I am just as far on Death's door step as is Polka, if not more so. The magic gets stronger every day, slowly draining me, and yet I manage never to think on it. But Polka is young and has a life she should be living – a life that does not involve pondering over the life-lessons found in a hill of ants.

I was quiet for a long while, thinking about what it was exactly that had freed me from the sense of impending doom I had lived under since I could remember. I realized with a bit of a start that it had been Jazz. With myself so weak and him so reckless, neither of us had a guarantee when we went to sleep that we'd be alive to see the next morning… although no one truly does, do they? Instead, together we had learned to experience each day as though it were our last, and then relinquish our lives each night to whatever higher forces dictate such matters, not expecting to wake up again and being sincerely grateful when we did. 'Live like it's tomorrow,' that's what Jazz says. 'Live like you'll never see such a _beautiful_ day again.' The complex part is figuring out how you want to live your tomorrows.

Put it this way: if you died today, what would you want to have achieved? What would you have done worthy of being remembered?

When I finally found my voice again it was low and a little hoarse. "Our lives gain meaning through the people whose hearts we touch in that time we have been allotted here. Every life we change changes our own just that much. We find meaning and solace in working for others, because it means that even after we're gone, someone will remember us. Maybe not our names or faces, but we will be more than just images on a photograph. We will have meant something to someone somewhere, and that will keep us alive forever."

She turned and beamed at me, all melancholy gone. She leaned over and kissed my cheek, whispering, "You've meant something to me, Father," before standing up to join the almost maniacal cheering going on several yards away. I was left alone to muse over the implications that conversation had on my own life right now, and now, a good fourteen hours later, I am still musing.

Jazz is my legacy. My affection for everyone in this house runs deep, of course, and I believe we have impacted each other in many, many ways. Jazz and I, though, have affected one another more than anyone else. We have both changed – and are changing – the way the other sees the world and his place in it. Supposing I died tomorrow, and I'm not afraid to say that I could, the others might forget me, or have vague memories of some strange fellow in a top hat who could play the piano. But even if Jazz forgot me, I have become so ingrained into the person he is that I would never really be gone, and it is the same the other way around.

However, no matter how I try, I can't help but ache a little inside when I see the hatred in Jazz's face after he has been drinking. I could take the corporeal pain forever if I had to, but that look in his eyes makes me doubt us both. He is everything to me and I thought I meant as much to him, and yet there must be something to make him detest me so; am I nothing more than a charity case? If I have any decency whatsoever, I ought to up and leave or confront him about it head on, but I cannot bring myself to do either. I am afraid. I am afraid of what he'd do if he knew about the late-night beatings. I am afraid of losing him.

I don't know what I would do if he were to tell me that not only had he never returned my feelings, but that I have been standing in his way all this time. I don't suppose I should ever forgive myself.

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**A _bookshelf_, Mandy_? _Really, that's the best you could come up with? _X. D _FAIL. **

**Any questions for Frederic you want to request, feel free, but be warned that I kind of have an idea of where this story is going, so they may or may not be included. **

**See any grammar mistakes, please let me know! Thanks for reading!**


	8. Learning by Example

**Okay, really, really sorry for not updating; I've had so many other things going this story kinda got forgotten. Hopefully I will be able to update more often now that school's out. Thanks for being patient. :. )**

**BTW, I have a poll up about this story! I'm interested to see what you guys say, so please vote if you haven't already. **

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August 24 - Monday

Tomorrow is Allegretto's birthday. Why does no one tell me about these things ahead of time? I had no idea until I came down stairs this morning to find Polka wrapping a present of some sort in baby pink paper. Salsa and March were arguing, as per usual, although today about how they would decorate for a party, while Beat went on about how he had no gift and he didn't know what he would do. Retto was hiding in the corner of the kitchen, trying to avoid all the questions about what he wanted and what he'd do when he turned seventeen.

"Frederic," he whined when I walked in, "make them go away!"

Jazz, who had been sitting on the sofa watching the scene with his arms folded, laughed suddenly. "Are you kidding? He's going to buy the streamers!"

"Ohh! Streamers! Jazz, that's a great idea!" I've never heard March squeal before, I must say. It was rather cute. She and Salsa were literally jumping up and down, and Allegretto could only groan and try to bury his head further.

"Fred-eric! Make them _stop!_"

I chuckled. "All right, girls, all right. That's enough."

"But-"

"We have all of today and tomorrow; no need to torture the poor boy every minute of it." I winked at them. "Does anyone still need to buy presents?" There was a sudden cacophony of answers, and I laughed again. "Yes, so do I. Why don't I take you all with me?"

In the end Allegretto, Jazz, and Polka all chose to stay home (I suppose the latter two had know Retto's birthday was coming up and had found gifts ahead of time), so that it was myself, Viola, Falsetto, and the three children going into town.

If there is one thing that drives Falsetto and Viola mad about me, apart from the fact that I allow myself to be treated like a rag doll every night, it is that I lack the ability to turn people away. They both dread accompanying me to the city because I give money to every beggar that comes up. The looks on their faces when they realized they would have to come with me were both comical and a touch insulting; you would have thought they'd been told they'd have to slog through the sewers. However, they made no official protest, and simply found their bags and weapons without comment (I doubt weather weaponry is truly necessary for going into the city, but none of us feels comfortable without the familiar weight in our hands so we bring them anyway.)

The walk there was rather long and hot, bringing me to wish once again that I could take off my coat and still believe I was a gentleman. Luckily it wasn't especially crowded, which would have made the heat more unpleasant. Here and there people bartered and traded, and more appeared the closer to town we came, but for a long while the entirety of the roads were all deserted apart from the neglected souls who had no home in which to hide. These people caught the little ones' attention, and at first the smaller children tugged at my sleeves, whispering and pointing until I had to tell them not to be rude. March, especially, was pained to see the poor state of others, although Beat seemed rather unfazed. I noticed Falsetto's eyes lingering here and there, sorry more than she would ever admit, but if Viola was hurt she refused to show it, parading along ahead of the rest of us. Salsa held my hand, not for sorrow but fear. After her imprisonment in Forte, she's learned to be wary of strangers of any sort.

As we were approaching the city entrance Beat suddenly pulled at the hem of my shirt, and I glanced up to see what he was looking at. A small woman was approaching us, not ragged exactly, but dirty and hunched. I halted to watch her draw near, smiling at her as Beat clung to my feathered chemise. When she was a few feet away she held out a shy hand, the fingers curled upward.

"Coin...?" Was all she said, and I had to wonder whether she knew no more, or if she were merely embarrassed to put the heavy accent and improper grammar on display that the majority of the poorer people in the city posses. "Coin, sir?"

I dug into my pocket and brought out a small gold piece from the bag I had brought especially for charity; I learned fairly quickly that if I did not bring extra specifically for giving away, I would find myself without the means to buy whatever it was that I had come out for. Her face simply _split_ in a wide, earnest grin, and I knew that if one in one hundred of the coins I gave brought out that sort of smile, I would have no objections to losing all the money I'd saved up.

"Thank you," she whispered, attempting a curtsey and taking the gold from me. "Thank you, Mister..."

Before I could answer, whether to give her my name or to tell her it was nothing, Viola leaned over and batted the woman on the shoulder.

"Shoo," she ordered, pointing away. "Get out of here before I take care of you myself!"

The poor woman looked up at me with frightened eyes, trying to thank me again but too afraid to open her mouth. I simply nodded and she turned and ran away, lost in a sea of other rag-dressed figures come to admire the glistening coin. I looked after them for a moment until Viola grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me away.

"Honestly, Frederic, how do you think they got to be destitute in the first place?"

Falsetto nodded in agreement. "More than half of them are scammers. They don't need the money, they just want more and are too lazy to go out and earn it themselves."

I didn't bother arguing with either of them, having learned from experience that it does no good. They are stuck in their ways, and the most I can do is prove myself to be just as stubborn. So I simply smiled and nodded and let them lead the way through the crowded streets, rolling their eyes as I stopped every now and then to give out gold pieces. Eventually they contented themselves with only exasperated sighs, Falsetto mumbling something about "They're going to flock to us like moths to a candle…"

"Hey, Frederic?" Beat asked, watching a tiny little boy younger than him rushing over to the nearest bread stand with his new-found wealth. "Why are you giving all your money away?"

I shrugged slightly. "They seem to need it more than I do."

"_Seem_ being the key word, there."

"Oh, hush, both of you. It is my own money that I've earned myself; I can do with it whatever I please." No matter how much I beg him not to, Crescendo always pays quite handsomely for performances. I don't need or want the reimbursement and would much rather consider it a repayment of the many favors I owe, but he won't allow it. I'm sure he would be angry if he knew how I spend it all.

"But… but… don't _you_ want it, though?" Salsa seemed quite perplexed.

"I have no interest in such secular things as currency. Everything I need is right here with me."

Falsetto laughed and turned around to look at me. "From what Jazz tells me, you used to _love_ seeing all the pretty things you could buy in all the shop windows."

I chuckled, handing over another coin in response to a wordless plea. "Yes, that's true. I'd have the furniture re-arranged every week just so I could find room to add more."

Viola glanced over her shoulder. "So what happened?"

I shrugged again and threw a gold piece gently to a huddled crowd of broken children, all of whom scrambled for it and waved after us. I smiled and waved back. "The day I lost interest in money was the day I found out my friends had lied to me about the cost of the house I was renting, and had been pooling their funds every month so I could live where I wanted. All the money in the world couldn't purchase that feeling of being loved and cared for."

"Do you always talk in clichés?" Viola asked, and I chuckled.

"You understand, they weren't clichés when I was growing up. They were just good English."

We stopped at a window shop so Viola could examine a new bow that had just come out (were we not there to look for Allegretto?) and I noticed March staring off at a stand of flowers. When the others moved on, I held back to buy a single long-stemmed Alstromeria, which I happen to know is her favorite. March had her back turned to me, and as quietly as I could I slid the flower behind her ear. She yelped and put a hand up to her head before turning towards me with a look of wondering bewilderment on her face.

"It's a…. it's a flower," she said, tilting her head. I laughed and tilted my head back.

"Yes, it is. An Alstromeria."

"W-why?"

"Why not? You like them, do you not?"

"Yes…" She blushed and touched the flower with her forefinger. "Thank you."

Salsa stuck out her bottom lip at me. "How come _I_ didn't get a flower?"

"You got a present last time we came to town, remember? Today it is March's turn."

She opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it again, her lips still turned down in a faint scowl. "Yeah… I guess you're right."

Falsetto's eyes widened in amazement, and she dropped the leather gauntlets she had been examining. "I must be hearing things!"

I smiled, secretly very proud of my little red-head. "We are practicing sharing our things with others."

"Just like the money, right, Frederic?" Beat asked.

"Yes, Beat," I answered, still smiling, "just like the money."

"Oh," Viola murmured, looking at me from under her eyebrows. "So you're _not_ just being stupid." Now it was my turn to frown.

"Regardless of my motives, I would not say I was being stupid, no."

"But that's why, right?"

"I _am_ attempting to set some sort of exemplar, if that's what you mean, which at the moment, is more than either of you are doing."

Falsetto rolled her eyes. "You're seriously trying to be the role model?"

"Children learn from example, and I hope so will you. Now weren't we here to find a birthday present? I highly doubt Allegretto will have any interest in a new bow string." Viola colored a little and set down the object she had been scrutinizing.

"Sheesh, _somebody_ got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," she said, folding her arms and huffing in an attempt to hide the fact that I had a point, and she knew it. I started to roll my eyes before remembering that gentlemen don't actually do that, especially not in public. I attempted to smile instead.

Actually, Viola was closer to the truth than she probably realized. I was grouchy all day today because I hadn't slept well – hardly at all, in truth – and because I had spent most of the night trying to fix a rather nasty gash across the back of my head, which is a very awkward angle to work at. This time I did, in fact, cut myself on the sharp edge of the bookcase as I was thrown against it. The fates seem to have a sense of irony.

But of course I didn't tell any of them this, and simply ushered them towards finding something Allegretto might actually appreciate. I decided on something useful for him; a new leather pouch to replace his old one, and a new clasp for his feather sash (I lack a better word for it), since the original has almost rusted through. Salsa managed to locate a magician's hat for him (she is developing an unnatural obsession with hats, it seems), while March bought a bottle of healing tonic with her own money. Beat found a pair of very sturdy-looking leather gloves, and Falsetto and Viola went in on a fortified steel shield together, agreeing that it was a terrific gift that was too expensive for one person.

We hurried home, although not before I had given away another six coins or so, to find Jazz asleep on the sofa, and Retto and Polka nowhere to be found. Beat went off to look for them while Salsa, March, and I spread ourselves out on the living room floor to wrap the gifts.

Rather than write tags on each package, March dug through the piles of curios in the house and found different colored paper and string to match each of us – pink paper and red string for Polka, orange and purple for Salsa, etcetera. The idea actually worked much better than I thought it would, with the exception of Viola's gift: Jazz, who had been asleep behind me until then, suddenly grabbed me around the neck and pulled me backwards, I suppose in an attempt to kiss me. I started rather violently and knocked the bottle of paste all over the parcel I had been wrapping, spilling white goo everywhere. Of course, Jazz thought the whole think to be quite funny, and after the girls had realized what had happened they both laughed as well. March made some white paper fur to cover the blotch of glue and it looked a great deal nicer after that, but regardless I told Jazz that if anyone asked I would blame him. He laughed again.

I miss hearing him happy like that. He isn't so cheerful at a quarter past midnight when he has me pinioned against the wall with one hand and holding a vicious smelling bottle in the other. Ah, well, I suppose everything looks worse late at night. Things will be alright again in the morning; they always are.

I have to think of a nice breakfast to make for Retto tomorrow… Hopefully I'll have some idea in the morning. I always wake up with melodies for new music stuck in my brain – why not recipes?

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**Again comments and critiques are always appreciated! If anyone has question requests for the kids, let me know! :. ) **


	9. Make a Wish

August 25 – Tuesday

This morning Retto was nowhere to be found, which was very odd. Usually he is awake early, and we find him outside practicing with his sword before breakfast… although I suppose that would be impossible, seeing as Jazz apparently "borrowed" Retto's sword yesterday and spent the afternoon working on it, repairing the cracks and blunt edges that have accumulated. The blade is currently sitting downstairs beside the sofa, wrapped in brown and yellow paper and evading whatever reconnaissance missions Allegretto has been attempting.

By late afternoon we were starting to worry, and the smaller children went off in search of Retto while Viola brought the goats in from the pasture, which left Falsetto, Polka, and myself to try our hand at making a chocolate cake of sorts (Jazz was asleep again, passed out on our bed upstairs. Sometimes I wonder if he _enjoys _making me fret….).

The recipe was old and faded so that it took all three of us at times to understand what the paper said, but finally we managed to get both the batter and the pan into the oven. The women sat down at the table while I insisted they let me clean up – I hadn't been much help in the making of the cake, so I figured I could at least help afterwards.

"So, Frederic," Falsetto began, pulling out a chair, "what did they do for birthdays where you grew up?"

I considered. "Well, most of what we have done today, I suppose. We exchanged gifts, and had cake or Paczki, and sang to them and all of that."

"You guys would sing?" Polka asked.

"Yes. We sang for all sorts of occasions – weddings, funerals, birthdays, anniversaries. I think that is part of why I loved the piano so much when I was younger; if I played accompaniment, I didn't have to sing."

Falsetto laughed. "So what song do you do for birthdays?"

"'Sto Lat' - good luck." I pulled the oven open slightly to check on the cake before shutting it again and pulling out the broom to sweep up all the sugar we had spilt.

"Will you sing it for us?"

If it had been Falsetto that had asked, I swear I would have said no, but Polka sounded so curious and so… sweet… I just couldn't turn her down. So as I swept I began to sing, the Polish words very familiar on my tongue despite years of separation.

"_Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam. Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam. Jeszcze raz, jeszcze raz, niech zyje, zyje nam. Niech zyje nam._" 

By the time I finished, I had drawn a small crowd. March and Salsa had both come in, (without Beat or Retto, I noticed), followed by a very groggy looking Jazz.

"Was that you singing?" he asked, rubbing at the corner of one eye.

"No, of course not," I told him, straightening up. "Go back to sleep."

He snorted. "What song?"

"'Sto Lat,'" Polka offered.

"Polka and Falsetto were inquisitive about how we would celebrate birthdays in Poland."

"What does 'sto lat' mean, Frederic?" March asked, and Salsa 'hmph'ed, putting her hands on her hips.

"It means 'Happy birthday,' silly! Why else would they sing it as a _birthday_ song?"

I laughed a little, leaning on the broom as I watched them. "No, actually, Salsa, it means 'good luck.' It's used to celebrate lots of other occasions as well, not just birthdays."

"Well that's just stupid! Why wouldn't you have a special song? I mean, it _is_ a special day…"

While Salsa ranted, I pulled the cake out of the oven, setting it down on the cloth I had used as an oven-mitt so that the pan wouldn't burn the counter. Someday, I'm going to live in a house where the kitchen isn't all made of wood.

"Happy birthday!" Polka shouted suddenly, and I turned to see a rather put-out Allegretto being led down the stairs by his wrist. Beat smiled proudly at us.

"Look who I found!"

Retto was staring decidedly at his feet, blushing. There was another chorus of good wishes, and his face darkened.

"Can we just, like, skip the whole 'center of attention' thing?" He asked, settling down into the nearest chair beside Polka. Beat followed suit, still grinning.

"No!" Viola declared, coming into the kitchen. "You are going to sit there and enjoy every minute of it!" She plopped down at the table next to Retto and looked at me. "So we going to have cake or what?"

"Certainly, but if you want frosting of any sort you will have to wait a little longer." Several people groaned good-naturedly. Salsa groaned not-so-good-naturedly.

"But I'm hungry now!"

"Well, why don't you give Allegretto some of his presents, and I will finish the cake while you are doing that, alright?"

She scowled, but March's face lit up.

"Okay!" She ran back into the other room, and Jazz smiled and followed her more slowly, apparently none too confident that she could lift the shield on her own without being crushed under it. After a moment Beat followed, too, and everyone else pulled out seats for themselves. Hurriedly I found the ingredients to make the cake glaze so I wouldn't be disrupting everyone digging through the pantry. Just as I finished, the trio came back loaded down with glitter and gifts, arms so full they were almost dropping things, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing at the look on Retto's face. He groaned and buried his head in his arms while Viola hooted and slapped him on the back and Falsetto helped arrange things on the table.

Grinning, Polka motioned with her arms. "Which one do you want to open first?"

Allegretto shook his head. "Pick for me."

She giggled and held up a bright pink package tied with gold ribbon. "Okay, this one's mine."

He took it reluctantly, tearing gently at the paper for a second before Viola finally reached around to rip it open for him. A bundle of sky blue material fell into his lap, and he blinked a few times before he picked it up. Suddenly he smiled, shaking it out so that we could see – a new vest.

"I made it for you," Polka said, and if it hadn't been for her red cheeks to attest to her humility, I would have thought she was extremely proud.

"Try it on," Falsetto urged, and slowly Retto tugged off his sash and old vest, pulling the new one on over his head. Jazz whistled.

"Well done, Polka!" he exclaimed, and Polka colored further. No wonder she and Allegretto get along so well together.

"That's high praise," Falsetto assured her.

"Look, Retto," Beat cut in, examining the bottom of the vest. "It's got your name on it." We all looked, and sure enough there was 'Allegretto' scrawled across the bottom in minute, golden letters that must have taken hours to embroider – assuming she had done it perfectly the first time.

"Wow, Polka, that must've taken forever!" March exclaimed. Viola nudged Retto with her elbow.

"Well, somebody loves you, that's for sure."

Both he and Polka turned red. "Um, thanks, Polka," he managed, smiling shyly at her. "It's… it's a really nice gift."

"You're welcome." There was a slightly awkward pause, before Salsa bounced back into the room (I am ashamed to admit that I didn't notice when she left), wrapped magician's hat in hand. I stirred the powdered sugar and cream together while I watched everyone's blank gaze shift from the red head to the parcel and back again. She presented it to Retto, whose perplexed expression didn't change at all as the wrappings came off.

"What…. um, what's this?" Allegretto finally asked, and Salsa folded her arms.

"Well, a magician needs a hat, doesn't he?"

He gave a short laugh and held the cap out at arm's length rather than putting it on. "Yeah, I guess you're right, Salsa. Thanks."

March pushed her present forward. "This one is from me." I dug a spatula out of the cupboard and began spreading icing across the chocolate top haphazardly, still watching Retto as he stared at the tiny lavender gift.

"Well, thanks, March." He ruffled her hair gently, and she smiled.

"It's restoration tonic," she added as he looked at the bottle. "Thought it might help."

"That'll be lots of help. Thank you."

"Hey!" Viola said, dragging the suspiciously large and round package towards her and Retto, "Us next."

"This is from Viola and me," Falsetto clarified. Allegretto, obviously already certain of what it was, eagerly tore the white paper away – there hadn't been enough of any other color to cover the shield. He grinned as he admired it, holding it up to see better in the dimming light. Jazz tsk-ed, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're making the rest of us look bad," he muttered, smiling. Retto barely had time to thank them properly before Beat was pushing the lumpy yellow bundle forward.

"Here, Retto. Happy birthday."

"Hey, thanks, Beat." He carefully pulled the wrapping away and then tugged on the perfectly fitting gloves; Beat must be an excellent shopper. Jazz looked at me as Retto said his thank you-s again.

"You want to go next?"

I sighed over-dramatically. "Yes, I suppose so; somehow I get the feeling that if I go after you I will only be a disappointment." I pushed the cake a safe distance away from the edge of the counter and walked over to the table, leaning over Salsa's shoulder to select my gift out of the heap of boxes and colored parchment.

"This is from me," I murmured, handing it to him as I took the only vacant seat at the end of the table. He opened it and dumped the contents out onto his open palm. He inspected the items for a moment, and just as I was opening my mouth to explain what they were, his face lit up.

"Oh! Hey!" Hurriedly he undid the clasp on his sash and replaced it with the new one. I must admit, it looked very nice, the way it glinted in the red light of the afternoon sun. "Thanks, Frederic! I was just thinking that I needed to get a replacement."

I smiled. "You are very welcome. I hope they will be helpful to you." I turned to Jazz. "Alright, are you going to present your gift now?"

Jazz laughed out loud. "Present my present?"

Falsetto rolled her eyes. "You know what he means."

"Okay, okay." Jazz pulled the long bundle out from under his chair and laid it on the table in front of Allegretto. "Here you go, Retto, happy birthday. Fixed it up just for you."

Retto grinned and pulled the sword out by the hilt, balancing it reverently in his hand. "Whoa."

"When did you have time to do that, Jazz?" Falsetto asked, ducking out of the way as the blade was swung around experimentally.

"Yesterday while everyone was at the market. Allegretto was hiding out in his room, so he didn't even see it."

"Thank you," Retto said earnestly, looking at Jazz as he set the sword back on the table. Then he glanced around at everyone else. "Thanks, everyone. Really, thanks a lot."

"You are very welcome," I said, smiling back at him.

"Cake! Cake!" Salsa demanded, and soon she had a chant going. "Cake, cake, cake!"

I laughed. "Yes, Salsa, you've been very patient, thank you for waiting. Polka, would you mind helping me serve?" Polka nodded and stood up, and I pretended not to notice her hand sliding out of Allegretto's reluctantly.

We decided to eat outside, so we all moved out to the back porch where you could still see the sliver of crimson sun dipping down behind the mountains, painting the sky. The smaller children cuddled together on the wooden steps, and Polka, Retto, Jazz and I all sat together while the Falsetto and Viola lounged against the railing. (It seemed terribly rude of me to continue sitting while they stood, but the way Jazz had his arm around my waist I couldn't get back up.)

"This is really good, Frederic," Beat told me, twisting around to look at me.

"Thank you, but I didn't make it – Falsetto and Polka did."

"Oh. Well, it's good cake, guys."

Falsetto snorted. "Nope, didn't have anything to do with it, that was all Polka."

Polka blushed. "Well, thanks, but– "

"How much longer is this going to go for?" Jazz asked, smiling faintly.

Viola nodded, her mouth full. "Someone just say thank you and shut up about it."

Falsetto opened her mouth to answer, but March cut her off, pointing at the sky. "Oh! Look! A shooting star!"

I followed the line of her finger, and, sure enough, I caught the last flash of the star as it tumbled away into the darkening night sky. On my far right Polka laid her head against Allegretto's shoulder, whispering, "Make a wish."

I don't think I will ever forget that moment, the two of them embracing on the porch steps as Retto shut his eyes and Polka opened hers wide, both of them facing out towards the mountains and the garden and watching a star that had long since disappeared. I will never know what he wished for, but somehow I have a feeling it had to do with the girl sitting beside him – and somehow I have the feeling it was meant to come true.

"So, Retto," I asked after a little while, settling back against Jazz who was already half-asleep again, "how did we do? Not too terribly for your eighteenth birthday party?"

"First."

"Excuse me?"

"It's my first birthday party." He glanced down at his vest. "My first birthday present." Then he looked over at me and gave me the very smallest of smiles, lowering his voice until it was only above a whisper. "Thanks."

I leaned over suddenly and kissed the top of his head, pressing down the silver hair. He colored, but didn't pull away. "I love you."

He glared down at his feet. "Yeah," he muttered, "love you, too."

"Seconded," Jazz mumbled beside me, his eyes still closed. I laughed. "Now how about we call it a day and go off to bed, hm?"

So, here I am sitting at the desk in our room, writing even though Jazz keeps trying to pull me away - he says he can't sleep without me next to him. I suppose I ought to retire soon, but I just had to put the day down on paper first, because it's not often you hear those words come out of Allegretto's mouth. Good night, and another happy birthday to that sweet boy who's chosen to share his life with us. I'm glad we could make it a good one for him.


	10. Behind the Mask

**Wow... long time no see, huh? Sorry for the long absence; I am finding, much to my chagrin, that it's hard to get any work done while bedridden. (Wouldn't you think it'd be easier?) So unfortunately updates will continue to be sporadic*, although I've been trying to continue posting short stories/one-shots. **

**Thanks to everyone who sent me reviews and e-mails during the hiatus, and to those of you who are still reading this. No, I'm not dead (yet. LOL) and I haven't given up on this fic - despite what writing quality may say. XD Let me know if you find any mistakes. **

_***Read as "almost-but-not-quite nonexistent." **_

August 29 – Saturday

I have been trying my best to keep these… nightly encounters… quiet and to myself. (It sounds as though I am practicing infidelity.) I don't want Jazz to know anything, and I certainly don't want any of the _children_ to know, but no matter how hard I try I cannot seem to keep things from Viola.

I am grateful, I must admit; it gets lonely suffering alone. But she has a certain way of articulating things that often times comes off as blunt or offensive, and I am not always in the mood to hear what she has to say. I know she cares, but I sometimes I feel as though I am backed into a corner, having to defend the man who just finished abusing me.

She found me on the back porch this morning, weeping, and swore loudly with no prior introduction. "What happened?" She demanded, and after a minute of silence she shut the door behind her and took a few steps forward. "Frederic?"

I shook my head; I couldn't answer.

"Frederic? What happened?" She sat down beside me, putting an uncertain arm around my shoulders as I turned away.

"Don't," I managed.

"What happened?" She paused as though waiting for a response, and then asked, "Do you want me to go get the first-aid kit?"

I nodded and she stood up, coming back a minute later with a white box in her hands. "Can you tell me what hurts?"

I scrubbed at my eyes with the sleeve of the over-long night shirt I was dressed in and took a shuddering breath. "My arm… my arm is dislocated."

Viola frowned. "Totally?"

"I cannot move it."

She leaned over and pressed my shoulder gently, and I bit down on my lip in an attempt to keep quiet. "It's gonna be a bitch to put back in place."

I smiled despite myself. "Yes, I- I could tell."

As I spoke she began rummaging through the box, pulling out a bottle of white pills. "Here, I'll be right back. Hold these for a sec."

She moved into the house again and I put the bottle on the stairs beside me in favor of dropping my head into my good arm. Jazz was so _angry_ today, and there was this look in his eyes like he wanted to hurt me, wanted to watch me cry. He held me on the floor and yanked my arm behind my back until I had literally begged him to stop, begged him to let me up because I couldn't breathe with him kneeling on top of me. He kept pulling until we heard the sound of bone being snapped out of place, and then he got up and kicked me and walked away. But… he called me something. He called me by a different man's name, and when he left I could see he was crying, shaking so hard he couldn't get the door open.

How can I be angry at him for that? How can I be angry that these monsters of his past keep tormenting him until he drowns them in alcohol and tries to beat them senseless?

Viola came back out with a glass of water, walking as softly as she could. "Frederic?" She touched the top of my head with one hand, and when I didn't answer right away she bent down to see my face better. I'm sure I looked unconscious. "Frederic? C'mere, sit up. This'll make you feel better."

I struggled into a sitting position and she put an arm around my neck to keep me that way, pushing the cup towards me. I took the water and swallowed all three pills she held out.

"That should help, just give it a minute."

"T-thank you."

She led me back gently until I was leaning against her, my head on her shoulder. I felt foolish, really, but I was too sick at the moment to care. We sat like that in silence for maybe a quarter of an hour in the darkness of the early morning until the pain started to ebb away. She only let go when she felt me start to relax.

"Better?"

"Yes… much better, thank you."

"Ready to try and stick your arm back in place?"

I winced. "Not exactly."

"Want me to try anyway?"

"I don't suppose it will ever heal otherwise."

She edged around me, assessing the damage to my arm. By the look on her face, it wasn't good. "Gods, he really… he really trashed you."

I flinched slightly as she touched my forearm. "Sorry."

"It's alright," I murmured. "It isn't your fault."

She paused, glancing up at me, and slipped hand into mine. "Here, hold on to me."

"I don't want to–"

"You couldn't hurt me if you tried."

I laughed, and she squeezed my hand once before taking hold of my shoulder and shoving it forwards as hard as she could. I did not react the way I suppose we both assumed I would; rather than scream or jerk away, I simply went limp. Viola grabbed me by the other arm, and there was the click of reinstated joint before I fell forwards, doubled over.

"Saints!" She scrambled to catch me, wrapping both arms around my middle and pulling me back to her chest as I crumpled down onto the step below me. _Now_ I felt foolish, and the same thought ran through my head over and over again: if Jazz walks out here and sees us like this, he will never forgive me.

I struggled weakly, seeing stars though I was unaware of any pain.

"Shh," she said. "Hold still, you're going to make it worse."

I calmed down after a minute and she examined me further, flexing the muscles for me as I sank against the railing. She murmured something about the ligament needing more support, and went off to find a cloth to bind it back in place. When she came back I was asleep.

Viola shook me awake, frowning.

"Hmm?"

She sat next to me and took up my bad arm a little more roughly than necessary. "When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

My answer was cut off by a soft groan as she began wrapping a dishtowel around my forearm. "Uh, last night, of course."

She snorted and tugged at the cloth. "Yeah, sure. When was it, really?"

I sighed, leaning my head back a little more. "I don't know. It– it is hard to sleep, sometimes."

"When he's punching you like that every night, I'll bet it is."

"Viola…"

She tied the ends of the towel in a knot across my palm and sat back, studying my face. "I get it. I mean, I do. I just… it's hard to watch. I see you come down the stairs every morning looking like you just walked out of a battlefield, and there's nothing I can do about it. I can't even ask you to leave him. I just have to keep bandaging you up, night after night after night, and wonder who's going to break first, you or him?"

"I'm not going to break," I mumbled, resting more heavily against the railing. She frowned.

"You're only human, y'know. There's only so far you can go before things start cracking." She gestured at my arm. "Look, I know you're in love with him; I don't blame you. He's strong and brave and kind and generous and noble, the whole culmination of the underground rebellion… but there is a point where you have to realize that_ Jazz _isn't who you really care about. Jazz is the guy upstairs dislocating your arm and pinning you against the wall just so he can use your body. I'm not saying you shouldn't be with him, but…" she paused, looking torn. "There's a lot of people out there you could have. Lots of people in Baroque that admire you, would be proud to have you in their lives. Lots of people who'd sooner die than punch you around like that."

I looked at her skeptically. "So you are suggesting I pack up and move to Baroque?"

"Well, you could take Crescendo up on his offer and go work for him."

"I appreciate your concern, Viola–"

"Just think about it, okay? You don't have to leave right now; there's a couple of months still before it starts to snow."

"My relationship is not yet so terrible that I plan on moving out of the _country_, thank you."

She sighed and turned to look out over the lake, alight with the golden color of the rising sun. "It's not that I don't want you to be happy, Frederic, I just… maybe it's time to realize that the real Jazz isn't who you fell in love with. The person we met back in Hanon Hills was just a façade, and the real him stormed out drunk and half dressed almost an hour ago because you wouldn't let him fuck you. It's sweet how dedicated you are, but no one's gonna blame you for self-preservation." She glanced over at me. "Life's too short to spend it chasing a charade."

"I'm not. I have pursued shadows before, and this isn't it. This is something else."

"Like a new masochistic tendency you didn't know you had?"

I had to laugh aloud at that, mostly because the same idea had crossed my mind before. "My life would be so much easier if that were the case."

Viola frowned. "It shouldn't be."

I staggered up to my feet, wincing at the sudden pain. "No, maybe not, but unfortunately that does not change the facts."

She stood up, too, and there was a strange look in her eyes that I couldn't quite name. "What do you _see_ in him?"

I paused. It is a question I ask myself sometimes, late at night, lying in bed next to him and feeling the blood staining the sheets beneath me. But how do you explain the answers I come up with? How do you explain the sensation of his breath across my cheeks, his bare legs brushing up against mine, the way the pillow is warm from where he'd been lying, still holding the smell of my lover's body and how I feel safe and contented because he's here with me and that's all I really want?

"It is complicated."

"Well, yeah. Abuse is complicated."

I sighed. "It's not just the abuse."

"Is there something else?" She looked concerned, and I chuckled a little at the expression.

"No, I mean our relationship is more than just the abuse. It's… a lot more."

She turned away again to gaze out over the scenery. "Can you tell me?"

No, I wasn't sure I could. "I don't love Jazz because he's brave or strong or any of the other things you said, or because I enjoy being pushed around. I… I love him because of the things in-between all that. The moments when it's just us and he stops pretending to _be_ anything except from himself. I know he hates that, he hates that feeling of being exposed, but every once in a while he lets me see beyond the mask he always wears and I love him for it."

Viola still wasn't looking at me, but I could hear the interest – and the pang of jealousy – in her voice. "And what's behind the mask?"

"Something ugly." She blinked.

"What?"

"Why do you think he works so hard to keep it hidden?" When there was no answer I continued. "It's not pretty; it's not something I would want to have living inside of me all the time. Behind all the pretenses is someone who's scared and shy and lonely and who doesn't think he will ever be enough. He acts high and mighty because that is what he thinks he's supposed to be, and he drinks because he will _never_ live up to his own expectations. He hits me because he's terrified I am going to leave. He rapes me because he is convinced I want something else from the relationship we have. It hurts, yes, but when I realize what this means to him it feels selfish to be hurting. It's not that I lack options, Viola. I know I could leave if I wanted to. But I love him, even if he refuses to believe it, and I will stay here beside him for as long as I possibly can."

Finally she turned to look at me, and drew me into a rather awkward sort of half-hug. "I'm sorry."

I wasn't sure what she meant: sorry that I was in the situation, sorry that she still couldn't understand, or sorry that she had yelled… but the answer was the same either way. "Me too."

It is eight at night now and Jazz still hasn't come home, but I am so tired I believe I will have to go off to sleep without him. I mentioned this to Viola at dinner and she laughed, saying that a full night's rest is just what I need, but she doesn't understand what it feels like to sleep alone in a bed made for two. I hope he will be back when I wake up tomorrow.


	11. Our Four Word Fears

**Thank you for all the kind words, I am starting to feel better now. Much love to everyone who's still actually reading this! **

* * *

**What makes something scary?**

August 30 – Sunday

Jazz showed up late last night, or, rather, early this morning. I thought at first I was dreaming when he climbed in bed with me, until I felt him wrap his arms around my waist and kiss me on the cheek, whispering for me to go back to sleep. It seemed as though I ought to confront him and demand to know where on _earth_ he'd disappeared to all day without even so much as a goodbye, but really I was just very tired and glad to know he was home again with me, and I fell back asleep in his embrace.

I woke to the sun coming in through the windows, still lying with my head across Jazz's chest. He was conscious too, judging by the way he was breathing, but did not say anything at first when he felt me stir. I could tell he wasn't sure exactly what there was to be said. "…Good morning."

I tilted my head back to look at him. "I am upset with you."

He grimaced, pulling me closer. "Yeah… I know. I'm sorry. I'm not– I don't even know what happened. I guess I just took off." Though it was not quite a question I nodded anyway and turned so that I could see him properly.

"Please do not do that to me again," I pressed my cheek against his, "ever." If Jazz was surprised at my adamancy on this subject he did not show it, just nodding solemnly to the expression I gave him.

"Okay."

To be honest it is not the fact that he left which bothers me so much, and it is not even pinning me to the floor the way he did – if that were the case I would make a point to tell him what he had done. What bothered me the most, I think, is the keeping secrets. I know Jazz does these things only because he believes he can protect me by doing so, and perhaps he could if that were the end of the whole thing; if he could push these things to the back of his mind and forget about them there. Even if he _could_, however, I am not sure I would want that sort of existence for either of us. What I want is for him to feel as though he can trust me, and for him to be able to tell me about these ghosts that haunt him without fear of what I might say or how I will react. I don't want him to be afraid of my refusing to wait for these nightmares to subside, as he has no idea of all the reasons I truly have to walk away from this… or all the reasons why I stay.

"I love you," I whispered, and he nodded again, not quite meeting my gaze. "Can I have a kiss?"

He blinked at me before breaking into a smile, replying that I did not have to ask before he pressed his lips to mine briefly, one hand running through my hair in a way that almost felt like an apology. "I'm glad I have you, you know."

"I am glad you have me, too." He smiled a little wider and glanced over my shoulder towards the clock.

"Guess we should get up before they kill each other." They of course being the children, all of whom tend to be rather petulant in the mornings.

"Yes," I sighed, "I suppose we should." I moved away and stood shakily, the medication apparently having worn off during the night; Jazz had to grab at my arm to keep me from falling.

"Are you okay?" He pulled me back onto the bed with him, moving hair out of my eyes so he could see my face more clearly. "Frederic?"

I shook my head in an attempt to rid myself of the dark spots that danced across my vision, the sudden swell of pain a little overwhelming. I couldn't exactly ask Jazz not to touch my bad shoulder without rousing suspicion, but I still wished he might just _know_ these things every once in a while. "I'm… fine. Give me a moment."

"Are you hurt?"

I shook my head again, trying to see through the blackness. "No, I am just tired is all. I was up late waiting for you."

"C'mere. Maybe you should lie down for a while and I'll go check on the kids." He tried to lead me back down onto the pillow as he pressed the palm of his hand to my forehead. "You kind of have a fever."

"I _always_ kind of have a fever."

"I know, and it always worries me."

I laughed and pushed his hand away gently. "There is no need to worry, love, I'm alright."

Jazz frowned. "You should still lay down and rest for a little while. What time did you go to sleep?"

"Late." To be honest I am not sure what time I fell asleep, as I really was trying to stay awake to make sure Jazz got home okay. The clock had already struck midnight by the time I found myself unable to keep my eyes open any longer.

"Yeah, I got that." I only smiled at him and he sighed, pushing a curl out of my eyes. "You should humor me once in a while."

"Perhaps if we get something to eat I shall feel better."

He rolled his eyes. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"No."

"Okay, fine, but I'm making you come back to bed if you're still as pale after breakfast as you are now." I nodded quietly and he kissed me, leaning over to pick his shirt up off the floor. "I'm just concerned about you, baby. I don't want you to get sick." He pulled the fabric over his head and amended, voice muffled, "Well, sick_er_."

I managed to make my way over to the closet and dug out my own clothes, moving more slowly than usual with only one arm endowed with a full range of motion. Jazz watched me from his half-dressed place on the edge of the mattress, and when I turned to ask him if he was ready he just reached out to take my injured hand, kissing the back of each knuckle. He startles me sometimes, how gentle he can be.

We walked downstairs together in silence, and we reached the kitchen just in time to hear the tail-end of another one of Falsetto's tirades. "No, for the last time, Jazz _didn't_ tell me where he's going, and frankly I don't really care — it's not my responsibility. He can go wherever he damn well pleases."

Jazz sat down at the end of the table closest to the door, keeping a hold of my hand as I sat next to him. "You know, those might be the four scariest words I can think of: it's not my responsibility."

Everyone turned to look at us, the children's faces lighting up as Viola's countenance hardened and Falsetto's fell. "Jazz! Hi!"

"Where'd you go?"

"We were wondering if you were okay."

"When did you get back?"

"G'morning, guys!"

"Where the fuck have you been?"

He laughed a little and shook his head. "Okay, I only heard like half of that. Good morning to Salsa. Hi, Beat. I'm fine, March, but thanks. I got home around three. And I don't _know _where the fuck I've been." With the last comment he turned to face Viola, who was stabbing at her bowl of oatmeal with much more vehemence than was strictly necessary.

Beat cocked his head at us. "How can you not know where you've been?"

Jazz shrugged. "It was late – I got all turned around in the dark."

"Okay," Falsetto cut in, "where were planning to go, then?" The masked disconcertment in her eyes added, And why didn't you tell me?

"Wait, what was that about not giving a damn?"

"I _don't_ give a damn!" she exclaimed, turning her head away as though she'd been struck. "It's stupid of you to go out wandering like that without informing anyone, though."

"I'm a grown man, Falsetto," he teased. "I can take care of myself."

"Do you want some breakfast?" March asked, forever my little peace maker. Jazz shrugged.

"Sure." He watched her disappear around the corner to where the cereal was being kept warm over the fireplace and inquired, "So did everyone survive okay without me?" The room lapsed back into awkward silence.

"We missed you," Polka said finally as March came back with two bowls.

"Yeah," Viola muttered. "Missed you."

The atmosphere was very heavy and I turned my attention to the food in front of me, not feeling well enough to try and break the discomfiture. Jazz seemed baffled by their reactions. "Jeez, did _everyone_ get up on the wrong side of the bed today?"

My heart went out to the younger children who chuckled uneasily, not sure what the proper response might be. They have no idea why the adults are so perturbed with one another. After another minute of silence Beat glanced over and asked, mouth full, "Hey, did you mean what you said about those being the four scariest words you could think of?"

"Well, it would definitely make the top ten."

Retto waved a spoon at us. "I bet you hear a lot of creepy things where you work, huh?"

Polka nodded. "Why would you say that is one of the worst?"

Jazz considered the question, hand still intertwined with mine under the table. "There's not a whole lot of things that can kill someone faster than not caring, and once you stop caring you take everybody else down with you."

"Apathy is a dangerous thing," March agreed. I glared at Viola, silently daring her to say anything, and thankfully Salsa cut in before she could do more than open her mouth.

"Well those wouldn't be _my _four words. Mine would be 'We're out of chocolate.'"

There was a long pause before everyone at the table broke out laughing at the same time, the anger seeming to drain from the room. "We never have any chocolate!" Beat giggled.

"I know. And that's scary."

"Alright," March cut in, "I think mine would be 'Spring will be late.' It is always worrisome when the earth doesn't get warm when it's supposed to."

Allegretto waved the spoon again, dripping bits of oatmeal. "The scariest part of living in the sewers was that there was only so much we could do to help everybody, so I guess I would say my four words would be 'Wish I could help.'"

Beat nodded. "Yeah, but I agree with Jazz, so I'd say 'Nobody really cares anyway.'"

"What would Polka's be?" I asked, glad for the distraction as Viola pressed two more of the white pills into the palm of my free hand.

"I guess the four scariest words I can think of are 'My life didn't matter,' because there's not much use living at all if you don't matter to someone."

"What are yours?" Jazz asked softly, turning to look at me as I swallowed the medication.

"I know," Salsa jumped to her feet, "I bet'cha his are 'I don't wanna drown.'"

March frowned. "That's five words."

"Not if you run _want_ and _to_ together," Falsetto pointed out.

I thought about mentioning that if I were to say anything about suffocation it would be that I did not wish to be buried alive, but attempting to explain such a gruesome idea at the breakfast table seemed like a poor idea. Instead I simply shook my head and began counting words on my fingers. "'Nothing left to save.'"

"That's kind of how everything's been since the war started…" Retto murmured. Jazz followed my lead, holding up one finger for each word:

"'Our efforts are useless.'"

"'We can't go home,'" Falsetto added. "'No reason to live.'"

"Okay," he laughed a little, "Okay, how about 'The government sent me.' Now _that's_ scary."

I had to laugh too. He tends to be cynical about such things, especially after having been exposed to the darker side of regime and what happens when they system corrupts upon itself, but the statement was one whose sentiment we could all appreciate. If Count Waltz taught us anything, it is that those who run the governing bodies do not necessarily have to have the best intentions in order to come to power.

"'I can't be wrong," March suggested, followed almost immediately by her sister.

"'Your opinion doesn't matter."

That one I actually felt was very insightful of my little red-head. She does often come off as pushy or rude, but only because she feels the need to have her voice heard and lacks the skills to express her opinions more diplomatically. I was surprised to realize she understands this about herself – or, at very least, understands where the behavior stems from.

Falsetto glanced away, the mirth gone as she lowered her voice. "'I don't love you.'"

At first glance one might have thought that Jazz didn't understand the underlying meaning to her words, but I knew by the way his fingers twitched uncomfortably against mine. His tone was light when he answered, however. "I think 'I _really_ love you' is scarier."

Beat turned around in his seat to look at Viola. "So what would you say?"

Her face was creased with something akin to frustration, and it hurt me to know I had put that expression there. I can't imagine what it must feel like to watch this. "'You can trust me.'"

"I don't understand," Polka said, turning around the way Beat had. "Why would that be frightening?"

She sighed and started to collect empty bowls to bring back to the sink (Why do I insist upon calling it a sink? A wash basin would be more accurate.)

"If you have to tell someone that you're trustworthy, you're probably not. And trust isn't something you can really mess around with." She wasn't looking at either of us, busy adding soap to the dishwater, and I watched the back of her head as though I might be able read her mind. Which, to be fair, I probably could, but my own curiosities are not worth invading her privacy over.

"Trust is hard," Jazz said, and Viola leaned further over, seemingly determined to keep her temper. I tried to think of something to say to chance the subject, but Beat, ironically enough, beat me to it.

"How 'bout, 'better say your prayers'?"

I blinked. "Why is that frightening to you?"

"My dad always said it was bad to pray, because it's easier to kick a man that's already on his knees."

The room around us went quiet – the twins had been arguing about something or other up until then – and everyone looked over at the little boy. Even those of us who are less than fond of religion don't necessarily take such a hard-nosed stance on it, except maybe Jazz when he's drunk or depressed.

"I take it your dad wasn't on such great terms with God, huh?" Allegretto asked, and Beat shrugged.

"Well, no, not really. Mom was really religious, I guess, and he kind of started hating it after she died. It was always weird staying with the priest in Ritardando."

The elder boy looked almost stricken, realizing what bad memories it must have brought up living in the church. He had mentioned before that he didn't know why Beat preferred the sewer-hideout to the borrowed beds. "You never told me that story. Man, I'm so sorry; I never would have teased you about it if I'd known."

"It's okay, that wasn't your fault. I don't mind, like, the gods and saints and stuff, but I never liked praying. I guess I have this image of getting down on the floor and being shot in the back of the head."

Falsetto grimaced. "That's a little morbid."

"Yeah." He shrugged again. "They say that really happened in the town where I was born, a long time ago in the last war. The place was captured by the other side, but they didn't want there to be a chance of an uprising so they lined all the people up on the streets and told them to pray while the soldiers killed them." He paused, and added, "Nobody there ever had much faith in God again."

"Why didn't they just kill the soldiers first?" Salsa demanded, waving her fork in a poor imitation of a sword fight. (I am not sure if we were out of spoons or if Salsa just enjoys the challenge of eating cereal with a fork.)

"Well, they couldn't – they didn't have anything to fight with. Not everyone has cool attack goats like Viola, you know."

Viola, who had reclaimed her seat at the table, laughed. "Yeah, those are hard to find."

I leaned forward a little, feeling as though I ought to say something though I was not sure of what. "They say the gods tend to help those who help themselves," I murmured at last. "Perhaps that is what your father meant."

Polka nodded, eyes flickering up to the ceiling. "Even if there is a god, He can only do so much. We have to do our part, too."

"Sometimes we have to choose action over words," March agreed. Beat shook his head.

"He's my dad," he amended, swallowing down the last of his breakfast. "_You're_ my father."

We all talked together for a little while after that, though the conversation turned, as it usually does, to more practical matters: food, firewood, how the weather is and how much longer we can put off patching the leaky roof. Jazz agreed that I was looking much better, and we went outside with everyone else to avoid the coming heat of the day. I brought my journal and inkwell with me, and I am writing this as I watch the younger children play checkers in the dust. I am wondering if all parents feel this way.

Do they all question how on earth they will be able to guide a new life into adulthood when they are not even sure that they, themselves are done growing?

There are few times when I am able to forget how much we really have to fear in this world, between the monsters and the dissenters and ourselves. It frightens me from time to time, thinking about what kind of a place my children have to grow up in. I cannot raise them to be fighters – I don't know how. The things I know of lovers and dreamers and musicians have no use here, and though I am grateful for the help the others give me, I still worry that all of us together will not be enough. We can't protect the children from everything, certainly not forever, and yet all of them have endured such hells before now that perhaps what they need is not a warrior but a poet… perhaps that is why they follow me instead of Jazz.

It fascinates me, the concept of being a father. In my own mind I am still only a young man, wishing for my own family I was torn away from, wishing more than anything just to go home. How can someone so broken, so _mad_ as myself possibly hope to ever be worthy of such a title? And yet, that is not my decision to make. As Beat proved to me this morning, I have already been gifted with the name; I shall have to prove myself worthy.


	12. All the Luck I Can Get

Happy Father's Day! 8D

* * *

**What is superstition? **

September 2 - Friday

Unfortunately the heat wave hasn't exactly dissipated the way we were hoping; it would seem Mother Nature has more to do with the changing seasons than the calendar. If anything I do believe it is getting _hotter_, though to be fair the flurry of thunderstorms we had last month certainly helped to cool the air a little.

Everyone was up early this morning, and we ate breakfast in a hurry before heading outside. Jazz had promised Falsetto earlier that he would practice fencing with her today, (I truly do not understand her interest in fencing, seeing as she does not wield a sword) but he disappeared upstairs after we ate. I thought at first he had gone to find a different blade than the one he usually uses, but after a minute or two I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I should go find him. Just as the thought entered my head Jazz came back out – lacking, much to my surprise, the undershirt he usually wears. He doesn't like to go out anywhere without being fully dressed, not because he has any qualms about decency the way I do but because he doesn't like people to see the scars he bears. And… there are many of them.

He seemed alright when he came out, though, holding his sword over one shoulder and talking to Allegretto, who had wandered back into the kitchen. He caught my eye and smiled as he made his way down the steps, nudging Salsa out of the way with his foot. "Don't let me squish you."

She grumbled and moved away, albeit begrudgingly, and he chuckled.

"C'mon, Jazz!" Falsetto called, and Retto waved away the rest of the conversation with a smile. I suppose they must not have been talking about anything too somber, for which I was glad; Jazz does not need any more incentive to turn to the bottle.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming. Do you have your sword?"

She nodded and gestured with the flat-edged blade she had clasped in one hand – I suppose she must have dug it out of storage somewhere, as I am not sure I've ever seen it before. Of course, there are weapons scattered all over the house that I don't know about, and every time I find another one I am reminded of how grateful I am that we have such mature children.

Jazz and Falsetto started their battle, and I watched them for a minute before turning my attention to where March, Polka and Beat were sitting on the grass a little ways away. It was Polka's laugh that caught my attention, and I realized they were… sewing. Polka had her knitting in her lap, and she must have been trying to instruct March and Beat; they each had one needle in hand, a spool of wool yarn between them, and were giggling madly as they tried to copy the older girl's motions. I have never attempted knitting before, but it seems to be a very entertaining pastime.

Salsa was half-asleep at my feet, and Allegretto had gone to join in the faux fray, so for a while it was just me, left alone with my own thoughts. (I am not sure where Viola went; she mentioned something about a wounded goat and subsequently vanished.)

Jazz and I stayed up until almost midnight last night talking, and it amazes me how much I have missed just being with him. We talked about everything, really: the war and the rebellion, the updates in the letters Prince Crescendo has been sending, the threat of pirates in Ritardando, the coming snow. Looking back on it, all our topics were rather grim for such a late-night meeting, but it did not seem so at the time. In fact, at one point Jazz was laughing so hard tears were running down his face, sprawled out on the bed next to me with his head turned into the pillow to muffle the sound. I don't even remember what struck him as so amusing, but the laughter was so infectious that I wound up crying next to him with my face buried in the crook of his neck.

I can honestly say that I would gladly suffer a hundred more beatings for just a few more moments such as that one.

Such were my thoughts when Jazz sat down beside me on the wooden stairs of the porch, breathing hard; I must have lost track of time. Salsa groaned and blinked her eyes open, mumbling, "Didja win?"

Retto almost tripped over her as she sat up, only catching himself by sticking the edge of his sword into the soft dirt. Jazz gave a huffy laugh and put out a hand to help him. "You know, you're going to run someone through with that."

"Yeah, sorry, Salsa." He stepped over her more carefully and moved up the stairs between us, climbing up to sit on the railing. Personally it didn't look like a very comfortable position, but he didn't seem to mind. "That was a good game."

_Game_, I noticed, not _fight_. Retto is not one to be fastidious in his choice of words, but I think once you understand what a fight really is you want to be certain not to mix it up with anything else. "Yeah, you too. But don't tell Falsetto I said that, 'kay?"

He laughed, swinging his legs into the open air below him. "Aw, she did good, too." I bit my tongue to keep from correcting his grammar.

"Hey guys." Beat and March came to sit on the step in front of us.

"Hey." Jazz ruffled the boy's hair, and I couldn't help but smile. Sometimes I forget for a little while just why I fell in love with him, but he never fails to remind me. "What'cha making?"

Beat frowned a little and held up the pile of knotted yarn, one needle still stuck through the top row of loops. "Uh, I don't really know." March giggled.

"Polka says it's supposed to be an oven mitt." She turned to glance up at me. "She was going to make you one and we were going to make you the other, but it's not really turning out all that well."

"That's kind of a _girly_ hobby," Retto teased, "isn't it, Beat?" The younger boy stuck out his bottom lip, which perhaps wasn't helping his case.

"Nu-uhh."

"I don't know. Photography I could see, but sewing?"

Jazz reached out to take the knitting from him, examining it carefully. "I wouldn't say that's a girly hobby. I can sew."

Salsa laughed out loud, rolling over on to her stomach to look at us. Apparently the conversation had brought her back to her senses. "You can _sew_?"

"Yeah. Everyone in Andantino can – they have to. There are no nice, quiet housewives there to sit at home and darn all your clothes."

Viola, who was hidden from view around the bend, called out, "You seem to have one right there!"

Jazz turned to grin at me, and I could feel my face going red. I do not appreciate being called a housewife... even if the statement might sometimes be truer than I like to admit. "Frederic says to eff off!"

"I did _not_," I hissed back, and everyone laughed as my face colored further. "If you insist upon putting words into my mouth you might at least make them articulate."

"Maybe not articulate," he conceded, "but at least I can get my point across."

I tried not to roll my eyes. "Which brings us back to your sewing abilities."

He chuckled, watching as Beat tore out a row of stitches in exasperation. "You know," he said a little louder, "it's bad luck not to finish a knitting project."

The little boy looked up at us in horror, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing.

"Really?"

Jazz nodded. "Yep, or else the person you're making it for will have bad luck."

Beat turned his gaze towards me, his eyes wide. "Oh…"

"Jazz is just teasing, little one," I assured him, though he did not look any more relieved. Jazz, for his part, was gracious enough to catch my hint.

"Don't worry too much – it's just an old wives' tale."

Polka frowned. "I didn't know you were superstitious, Jazz."

He shrugged and settled his arm across my shoulder, and I was tempted to push him away. I was still a little peeved over the housewife comment. "Let's put it this way: I need all the luck I can get. And I'm not so arrogant or so blessed that I would overlook a little charm if there was a chance it could make me luckier."

Actually, he is very superstitious, which truly surprised me. He likes to whisper blessings when he thinks I'm asleep, and the very first morning we woke up together he gave me a necklace made of amber beads, saying it was supposed to bring good health. He also has a habit of tying knots in my handkerchiefs – he did that even before we were a 'couple' – and truth be told it used to annoy me to no end. Now it makes me smile, as I know it means he has been thinking about me. Sometimes when he has to be gone for a long stretch of time he will tie up every single handkerchief I own and leave them all hidden in the back of the closet for me to find; I believe it is his way of feeling he can protect me even when he's not there.

"Was your mom superstitious?" Retto asked, and Jazz looked as though he were seriously considering the question.

"I actually don't remember. I would guess not. She wasn't really a very educated woman, but she was very… proud. If she was scared of anything she never would have let on." He paused, and the want to push him away suddenly disappeared. I hate to see him hurt. Instead I leaned closer, getting a small smile and a squeeze on the shoulder in return. "Tenor was, though. He was all for anything that might bring a few more blessings our way, and he was always doing silly things he said were supposed to be good luck. It always made the other soldiers smile – to this day I don't know if he really believed in any of it."

March looked up at us, having taken over the project from Beat. "What sorts of myths do you know like that that people _do _believe in?"

"Well, all myths have someone who thinks they're true, and all myths have someone who thinks they're just shams to scare off people stupid enough to believe them."

"And the truth is somewhere in the middle," I murmured. He laughed.

"Yeah, like always."

"So," Retto cut in, "do you mean like the cemetery on top of Andante?"

"Exactly. There's a good reason to be afraid of the place, but everyone's blown that way out of proportion. All superstitions are sort of like that." He stopped for a moment and added, "Tenor might have been a little delusory, but he sure knew how to exploit that fear."

Salsa rolled over onto her stomach and looked at us again, stifling a yawn. "So, what do _you_ believe?"

"I already told you. I'll take any blessing I can get, from whatever gods willing to give them to me."

"Yeah, but, like, what do you _do_?"

"Well," he paused, as though trying to think of one of the many things he does, and suddenly put a hand up to tug at his ear. "Well, like the earrings."

"Earrings?" March asked. Behind us Viola laughed.

"Oh, those are _for_ something? I thought those were just a fashion accessory."

"They do double duty," Falsetto assured her.

"Can I see them?" Jazz glanced down at March in surprise, then moved his arm off my shoulder to unhook the piece of metal from his left ear. Beat leaned over to inspect them with her, and after a moment the jewelry was passed over to Salsa so she could see.

"Jeez," he murmured, pulling me back against him, "I never realized how easy it was to entertain them."

"Are they, like, really special?" Beat asked, handing the one earing back to him. He maneuvered it back into place one-handed.

"Well, they are to me because Tenor gave them to me, but it's not like they're blessed or anything."

"Who was Tenor, anyway?" Salsa demanded. I wondered how she had gotten this far into the conversation without the question having come up before.

"He was my mentor when I was a kid. He started Andante years ago, and he was the one who left me in charge of the place when he died."

He was more than that. He was Jazz's lover. At first Jazz was afraid to tell me that, concerned about what I would say, but I have never been anything but grateful to the man. If there is one person who has convinced Jazz that he is someone worthy of love and dignity, it is Tenor – and I honestly wish he were still alive so I could tell him as much.

"In fact," he added, nudging Salsa with his foot, "he built this house. Those strange markings on the windowsills and doorways are all his doing; they're supposed to keep evil spirits out."

"But, why did he give you earrings?" Beat asked. "That seems like a strange gift for a… for a boy."

"I like how he stumbled over the word _boy_," Falsetto teased, and Beat colored slightly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way."

Jazz shook his head, glaring over his shoulder at Falsetto. "No, you're right. I thought that when he gave them to me, although coming from him that was pretty normal. But I was working as a tradesman for the Andante back then, sailing back and forth between Forte and Baroque, and I admitted to him one day that I was terrified of water. And, you know, he laughed and all, but the next day he handed me a pair of earrings. He told me a sailor wearing earrings can't drown." He chuckled and murmured, more to me, "I asked him why blue and he shrugged and said, 'Cause I like blue. They match my eyes."

"I didn't know that," Falsetto said softly, but her comment was cut off by March's.

"Is that true?" She looked astounded. "They really can't drown?"

"I guess so – it's worked so far."

"What other stories are there?"

"Well, like this one." He moved his arm again to show them the tattoo on his right arm. "I got this in Baroque after I escaped from the orphanage."

Jazz has only a few tattoos on his body, all of them carrying more weight than they seem to. He has the symbol of Forte in ink on the nape of his neck – left over from his time being forced to serve in their army as a child, although you can't see it through his hair – and an ornate _J_ over his heart from his initiation into Andante. He also has the letter _F _tattooedon his flank, although that one is… rather new. And rather embarrassing.

The one he was showing the children, however, is a four-leaf-clover. Or, at least, it used to be, as it is rather distorted now with age and time. "This was my thirteenth birthday present to myself. I thought it might make the unlucky year a little better."

"Why did you put it on your right arm?" Beat inquired. "Wasn't that really hard to do by yourself?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, "it was. But I figured my right arm was less likely to get cut off, so it'd be worth it."

Beat still looked puzzled. "What happens if your good luck arm gets cut off?"

"The irony just might kill me."

Everyone laughed, including the other children though I suspect they did not understand the joke, and just then Viola leaned out the window to inform us that lunch would be done in a few minutes. Perhaps it is just me, but the hours seem to go by much faster in the summertime.

Retto hopped down from the railing, saying he was going to wash up, and Polka told March and Beat that if they wanted to follow her to the kitchen she would help them further. Jazz and I were left together on the steps again, with the little read-head lying face down on the grass in front of us, snoring softly.

Jazz pulled me into a sort of half hug and buried his nose in my hair. "You know, I've gotten a lot more superstitious since I've been with you."

"Really?" I asked, honestly surprised. I rather pride myself on being a realist, although I am, admittedly, sometimes less than pragmatic, and I could not think of a single reason why I might have made him more likely to believe in such things.

"Yeah. I find myself doing all kinds of stupid things now, just in the off chance it might keep you safe… and keep the fevers away."

I smiled at him. "We all do stupid things for love."

"Ew," Salsa groaned, attempting to bury her head further into the grass. "Mush."

Jazz and I both laughed, and he glanced over his shoulder as he leaned closer to me. "Don't look, Salsa."

Of course she opened her eyes just in time to see him kiss me, and she promptly flung an arm over her face and rolled onto her back, pretending to gag. _"Eeech." _

"I love you," I whispered, soft enough that the elf wouldn't hear. In answer Jazz slipped a newly-tied handkerchief into the pocket of my coat.


	13. Irony

**Why do bad things happen to good people?**

September 5 - Monday

Today when I came in to make lunch I found Retto seated in a chair in the kitchen, leaning up against the wall. He was reading over a letter which must have come by pigeon while I was away, his face furrowed. I did not ask, not daring to break the spell of concentration, and quietly went about pulling out knives and pans and whatever else I might need to cook. (I tend to take out more utensils than necessary, simply because food burns so easily already without my stopping in the middle to find some elusive ladle.)

After a few minutes of silence Allegretto groaned and leaned forward, the front chair legs hitting the ground with a loud thump. "I _hate_ this."

I glanced up to see him re-reading the note. "May I ask what is bothering you?"

"The oldest girl in the sewers knows how to write, so they sent me this letter to let me know how they're doing." He waved the piece of paper in the air. "I just… I hate it."

"Hate what?"

"They're so… I mean, I–" Allegretto may not be the most eloquent speaker, but he always knows what it is he wants to say. It rather bothered me to see how flustered he was.

I pulled the pan off the stove (some things are more important than food, though I doubt Salsa would agree) and moved over to the table, pulling out a chair of my own. "Can you explain it to me?" I considered asking to see the letter for myself, but he tends to be very overprotective about such things and I thought it best not to intervene.

He took a deep breath and blew the hair out of his eyes with the exhale, obviously trying to find a way to put emotions in to words. "It wasn't so bad when I was one of them, you know? I could just tell the kids that they should ignore all the people who were being idiots… but now I can't do that anymore. Now if I say that I feel like I'm just being a big hypocrite; it's so _easy_ for me to say that 'cause it's not me." He paused to take another breath, and I noticed he'd crumpled the parchment in his fist. "I wanna help them, but I don't know how and it's driving me nuts."

"Retto, you cannot be so hard on yourself. Every opportunity you have, you assist the orphans, and you take care of them as your own family. There is not much more you could do." I reached out and gently pried his curled fingers open, smoothing the letter out on the table between us. The handwriting was messy and slanted, written in very old ink that blotted at the end of every letter. "The fact that they want to keep in touch with you proves how much of an impact you have upon their lives."

"It's just so messed up. All of it. If people would just open their eyes and stop ignoring all these kids that live in the _sewers_ for gods' sakes…" He sighed and ran his hand across the soft, rumpled paper. I noted someone else's script on the back – they must have dug through the trash to find something to write upon. "Why does this shit always happen to such good people?"

My heart ached to hear the pain in his voice, emphasis resting between each word. It is a question I often wonder myself, and it is one whose answer has always remained obscure; I suppose there are some things we are not meant to know.

"Perhaps," I murmured, watching him smooth the wrinkles I had missed, "it is the bad things that turn them into good people."

"Huh?"

I looked out the window to where the younger children were out tripping over each other, and thought again about how much they, too, have been through in their short time on earth. "An easy life does not teach us anything… that is the irony of life. It is only when things are difficult and unpleasant that we begin to grow into the kind of person we truly want to be."

"They don't deserve this, though."

"I know, Retto. No one does. But these trials are what shape us, and they make us better people for having experienced the pain." He nodded pensively, the frown a little less severe than it had been earlier.

"Do you really think so?"

"I am sure of it."

He picked up the letter and glanced over it again before sighing once more and folding it up. "Why can't life lessons ever just be easy?"

I smiled. "Because then it wouldn't be life, it would be school. And you hate school."

Retto actually laughed at that. "Yeah, you're right." He stood up and pushed the chair in, hesitating a moment before giving me an awkward hug.

"Lunch should be ready in about ten minutes, so don't go too far." I tried not to say anything too embarrassing; the boy's displays of affection are valuable to me, and so I do my best not to scare him away during such moments. Even around Polka he doesn't like to be very open with his regards.

"Okay. I'm just gonna put some stuff away and I'll be right back down." He smiled and disappeared around the corner toward the bedrooms at the end of the hallway, and I watched him until he was out of sight.

Allegretto tends to perceive himself as a hero, I suppose, which is both his charm and his downfall. He needs to help people, even when it means sticking his nose in places where it might not be welcome, and he will go to great lengths to assist anyone in need. His self-worth is so tied to others because of this, though, that he suffers from severe depressions that last for days on end. I refuse to allow him near politics of any kind, and much of his money, like mine, is given away to others.

It is rather amusing, I suppose, to notice how alike both Jazz and Allegretto are. Both of them have a longing to help whomever they can, however they can, no matter the personal costs to them. Allegretto carries a knife around everywhere because he enjoys feeling as though he could help out if anything happened, while Jazz runs an entire underground army in an attempt to protect those who are unable to do so themselves, and suffers every day under the weight of that decision.

The pain of existence is a necessary evil, I think, though it is a painful one to be sure. We all try so hard to protect the ones we love from hurting, but, as they say, the fire hardens the clay it does not destroy. For my part I shall simply do my best to love them both as they try to save the world.


	14. Homesickness

**I didn't get a single review on the last chapter. Not. A single. One.  
****Is anyone out there still reading this...? Or did it really just suck that bad?**

**Okay, well, the next part has a major plot-development (plot? what _plot_?) so everyone who still reads this should stay tuned! :) And maybe leave a review? Even if it's just a really short one? Seriously, I feel like I'm talking to myself. XDD**

* * *

September 8 – Tuesday

The last several days have been hard for me as today's date approached, and Jazz has been rather vexed at my sudden quietness. Truly I love him for it, but I cannot bring myself to explain what is bothering me just yet, and so instead I have just let him fawn over me all week, much to Viola and Falsetto's disgust. Right now I am simply grateful that he is here; though I hate to admit it, I need his over-protective nature at times like these.

I spent most of the day upstairs by myself, playing the same etude over and over again on the rickety piano in the attic. It sounds so different now, all these years later, although there are the same emotions underneath, the same fear and heartache and muted rage. I doubt whether I shall ever again been able to find such a beautiful, tragic melody. Every time I play it I am suddenly back to being a young man, twenty years old and stranded alone in Vienna, abandoned by my best friend who'd gone to fight a war for a country to which I would never return. I lost Poland that day, and I lost Tytus, and I didn't know either one was gone until _today_. The day the insurrection failed. The day I realized I could never go back.

It seems so odd to me that such a sharp, personal pain might be recognizable to anyone else… and yet I know I am not the only one. Every single person here has lost somebody, and each of their pains is my own, this ache that is so secretive as to bind us together and hold us there. We suffer together silently, each of us in our own clandestine cocoons of rubbed-raw grief, and so it is with all emotions. Each wound is the first, the deepest, the sharpest, something novel and unbearable and unrecognizable until we have been there ourselves.

I was drawn out of my own thoughts by a knock at the door and squeak of hinges, followed by Salsa's rather loud, "Hey, can I come in?"

I didn't turn to face her, not truly wanting Salsa to see me cry. "I am not doing anything very interesting, little one."

She paused. "You okay?" I suppose my voice must have given me away.

"Yes." My fingers stumbled to a halt on the keys, distorted through new tears I had been holding back. There is something about others' concern that seems to break down my self-restraint.

She came to sit beside me on the piano bench, her head on my shoulder and both arms around my middle. "Had a bad day?"

I hugged her back and let the tears come, knowing that she could understand. She has been in this place before. "I'm just a little homesick."

"You get homesick, too?"

"Of course. Even grown-ups get to be nostalgic sometimes."

"Where do you miss?"

I sighed, wiping at my eyes with the edge of my shirt sleeve. "Poland, the place where I was born."

She nodded quietly. "Yeah, I know, I miss the forest. It's hard being away from somewhere that means a lot to you." She snuggled closer against me and sighed. "But we _are_ home, y'know. We're all here together – we're home."

The world blurred again for a minute and I held her tighter, my daughter, my family, my little one. "Absolutely, Salsa, you are absolutely right. We are home."

I suppose she must have told Jazz what was bothering me because he called me into the kitchen just now as I was headed up the stairs for the night, everyone else already having gone to bed. I poked my head in and he beckoned me over to the corner where he was standing. I went to him, afraid that something was wrong, but he stopped me with a hand on each shoulder as soon as I was close enough, studying me hard as though in examination. I didn't speak, not sure what was going on, and just let him card his fingers through my hair as his gaze finally settled on my eyes.

"Frederic." It was almost frightening the way he stared at me, and there was an expression in his face I am not sure I had ever seen before on anyone, something deeper than compassion, deeper even than love. "Thank you." And he kissed me, very slowly, one hand on the nape of my neck and the other moving to the side of my face as he told me with his body all the things he couldn't say. After a minute he pulled away, still close enough that his breath ghosted across my cheek. "I know you miss it there," he whispered, pulling my forehead to rest against his, "but… I would miss you here.

"So thank you."

I am writing this all down while Jazz finishes the papers he was working on, and I suppose I shall sleep more soundly than I have the last few days. There is a good chance that I shall spend the rest of my life longing for Europe, but the right now has something different to offer me – something the past could never have. There are five children downstairs who all claim to be mine, a devoted lover and two very good friends. There are goats outside asleep, letters on the table from the prince and princess, a loaf of bread rising on the hearth, sheets of ink-blotched music and half-developed photographs lying together on the desk under my hand. I could not ask for more, and, perhaps for the first time, I can say there is nothing that would make me happier than I am at this moment. There is not enough money in the world to trade for this.

No, I take that back, I could be happier: those are Jazz's footsteps on the stairs. Goodnight.


	15. I am Not a Boy

Wow... it's been a while, no? I have a whole bag of excuses I could choose from, but I'll just be honest instead- this chapter has been done for weeks, I've just been too afraid to post it. As I mentioned before, there is a plot development in here (which doesn't involve Jazz, for once!) that might offend people, so be forewarned.

And for the record, the last chapter's AN wasn't a threat at all; even if no one reads this, I still plan to keep writing it. :) Although it _is _nice to not be talking to myself.

Warnings: slash (duh), cross dressing, angst, mentions of child abuse. And, uh, questioning of gender roles in society.

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**September 12 – Saturday**

I woke this morning lying on top of Jazz, feeling him running his fingers through my hair. The sun had already risen, though it couldn't have been much later than seven thirty, and the room was awash in bright, clear light. I remember thinking I never wanted to move.

"G'morning," Jazz mumbled, and I could hear the sleep in his voice. "How are you?"

"Tired," I whispered back, hiding my face against his chest. He chuckled.

"Yeah, I know. It's been quite the week."

"And we weren't even saving the world this time."

"One thing at a time."

I sighed in agreement and pressed closer, enjoying the feel of soft skin under my touch. "You're warm..."

"You're _cold_," he muttered, and in answer I slid my fingers up under his back. Jazz yelped and jerked away, laughing. "Jeez, Chopin, I was being nice!"

"I am cold, though." He laughed harder at the petulance in my voice and hugged me, burying his nose in my hair.

"I can fix that." He bit at my neck and I squirmed, trying to push him off.

"I didn't mean – _Jazz_!"

He grinned and gave me a kiss, disentangling me from the bedsheets. "You're no fun."

"I know."

He stood up, stretching his arms high above his head, and I blushed and looked away. Why he insists on sleeping without clothes is beyond me. "So... what should we do today?"

I toyed with a loose string in the coverlet as he went about gathering items of clothing off the floor, and answered, "I suppose we ought to go to the market, considering the fact that we have been surviving on stale bread and goat's milk for the past two weeks."

"You don't seem too thrilled about that idea."

I sighed again. "Any idea that involves getting out of bed does not appeal to me at the moment."

Jazz winked at me. "That could be arranged, you know."

"You're hopeless."

"It was worth a try." He disappeared into the closet, and a moment later his voice continued, "What do you think about putting the kids in school?"

I blinked sleepily. "Are there schools around here?"

"Well, the closest one is up in Forte City, but I was thinking it would be safe enough to send them this year. It might be good for them to get out of the house." He chuckled. "It might be good for _you _for them to get out of the house."

I thought about that for a moment. I have been trying to teach the younger children basic skills here at home—reading, writing, arithmetic—but there is only so much I can do. And it really might benefit them to be able to socialize with people outside our little family.

"Do you think they would agree to go?" I asked finally, and I could almost _hear_ Jazz shrugging.

"Does it matter? We'll make them go." He paused for a moment and then added, almost uncertainly, "Parents get to do that, right?"

I chucked. "Yes, I believe so."

He started throwing things out of the closet, muttering something about how we need to do laundry. I refrained from pointing out that all _my_ clothes were clean. "I think it only goes up to age fifteen, though, so I guess Retto and Polka couldn't go."

"That's alright; I'm not as worried about them."

I heard him laugh. "You worry too much. You act like their mother."

"Well, someone has to."

He laughed again and poked his head around the corner, but stopped when he saw my face. "What's the matter?"

"Hm?"

Jazz stepped forward, only half-dressed, and I moved over so he could sit beside me. "I didn't offend you, right?"

"You could not offend me."

He laid down with his face next to mine, draping an arm across my shoulder. "That's not a bad thing, you know—being their mother. I didn't mean it as a bad thing."

I sighed and closed my eyes. "I know."

It is difficult not to feel self-conscious sometimes, the way Falsetto and Viola tease me, and whenever Jazz says anything it only increases that sense of... shame. I love him and all of the children, of course, but this is certainly not the role I was raised to play. It still frightens me on occasion to realize how far away I am from where I'd planned to be: sleeping with another man, living in a small, wooden house with two women I am not married to, endeavoring to raise five children that aren't my own. I never imagined that I would someday be both a mother and a father to someone, a wife and a husband, attempting to play both parts together as if they were one.

Perhaps they are. Perhaps they always have been, and we simply try to force ourselves into choosing.

Jazz leaned over and kissed me, rubbing his nose against mine. I couldn't help but laugh, and he smiled and kissed me again. "You're a good parent, Frederic. Semantics aside, you are the most _amazing_ person I have ever met, being able to raise the kids the way you have. They're smart and kind and funny and well-adjusted— that's pretty incredible all by itself. Let alone the fact that they're all dying orphans who spend their time stealing bread and catching invisible glowing creatures to put in the soup."

I laughed again more loudly. "They do taste good in soup."

"So I hear."

He rolled over onto his back, pulling me with him until I was almost lying on top of him again. "Don't listen to anything Falsetto says, okay? You don't see any of them walking around calling her _Mom_."

I could just imagine Falsetto trying to be maternal, stuffed into high heels and an apron and brandishing a wooden spoon. "No... I suppose you don't."

"So why don't you stay here and rest, and I'll take everyone to the market with me. They'll all be thrilled to get out of the house. And when we come back I will help you cook dinner or something; I'll buy the stuff and you can show me the recipe for the tomato stew everybody loves so much."

I knew the was Jazz's way of trying to make me feel better, and just the thought itself made me smile. "Alright." I kissed him. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Nope!" He sat up again, grinning, and then paused. "I mean, yes, I'm sure. Why do you always have to ask things backwards?"

I watched him finish dressing without offering an answer, and he didn't seem to expect one. Instead he pulled the blankets up around me, tucking me in as though I were one of the children, and made a show of pulling the curtains shut so I could sleep. He wished me sweet dreams before he left, and I curled up on his side of the bed, smiling to myself because for some reason the sheets always smell like sweat and coffee no matter how many times I wash them.

A few minutes later Jazz poked his head into the room, smiling apologetically as I squinted my eyes open. "Beat's gonna stay here, okay? He promised to be quiet."

"Alright." I paused, stifling a yawn, and added, "Be safe."

"Yeah," Jazz laughed, "you too." He waved a goodbye and shut the door gently, and I could hear his footsteps retreating down the stairs.

I don't really remember falling asleep, although I suppose I must have at some point because when I opened my eyes again the clock on the wall said it was almost noon. Bright sunlight was filtering in around the edges of the curtains, and hunger had settled in the bottom of my stomach, making it obvious that I hadn't eaten since lunch the day before.

I went looking for Beat, planning to ask if he wanted something to eat, and found his little door at the front of the hallway closed tightly. I knocked once, and then again louder when I received no answer. Finally I pushed the door open a little, figuring he had either fallen asleep or was so entirely absorbed in what he was doing he'd forgotten there was a world outside. In retrospect, perhaps I should have simply left well enough alone.

Beat was standing in front of a cracked, full-length mirror that he must have found in the store room somewhere, blowing kisses to himself. That alone might have been a little odd, but what really caught my attention was his outfit: Polka's old green gown, complete with hair ribbons and a translucent lace underskirt. He looked just like a girl.

He must have seen my reflection in the mirror behind him, because he froze in mid-motion, his eyes suddenly wide. He wheeled around, and I managed to utter a soft, "Excuse me," and close the door before he flung himself towards it. The wood shuddered with the impact.

I stood outside in the hallway with my hand still on the doorknob and absolutely no idea what to do. I was painfully aware of the need to do _something_, because I could hear Beat crying on the floor of the other room, but I was lost as to what, exactly, the protocol was for such a situation. I wondered vaguely if anyone had ever been in this position before.

"Beat, honey?" Personally I rather dislike the use of household food items as pet names, (Jazz tried to call me 'cupcake' once and it did not end well) but it seemed oddly appropriate at the time. He sniffled loudly as I tried to maneuver open the door and shifted his weight, effectively blocking my entrance. "Can I come in, please?"

There was a long silence before he answered, softly, "Go away."

I hesitated.

I must admit that I was tempted to pretend as though nothing had happened. I could leave as he had asked me to, and fix lunch and wash the laundry like usual and say nothing more on the subject. No one would ever have to know, and Beat would be spared the incessant teasing he would otherwise receive at the hands of his sisters. (Okay, _sister_.) But I knew that was a foolish notion, given Beat's reaction: if it were something we could simply ignore, he would never have been so distraught.

I shook my head as though to rid myself of the idea, and tried again. "I am not going anywhere, little one. We can talk in your room or we can talk through the door." I heard him sigh. "Could I please come in? You don't—you don't have to change if you don't want to."

He sighed more loudly, a sound that transformed into a low sob halfway through, and I heard him moving around. When I tried to open the door again, there was just enough space for me to squeeze through.

I found Beat huddled on the floor, the apple green folds of the gown splayed out around him. There were dark streaks of make-up running down his face, and I couldn't help but notice the pink lip gloss stains on his front teeth as he whispered, "I'm really sorry, Father. I won't do it again."

I shifted some of the green fabric as gently as I could and sat down in its place, not sure of what to say. "You're sorry for what?"

He continued to stare at the floor, teardrops falling into his lap. "For... for everything." I lifted my hand up towards him, meaning to wipe away some of the make-up so that I could see his face, and he flinched away, finally looking up at me with wide, frightened eyes. "P-please, please don't hit me. I didn't mean to, I just— _I'm sorry_."

If I had been concerned before, I was horrified then. I have never struck any of the children; not even in one of my few lapses in sanity have I tried to hurt them. I had absolutely no idea why Beat would suddenly fear me, why he would cringe away from me like that. Whatever the reason, though, it hurt.

"Beat, sweetheart, I _love_ you." I pulled him into my lap, trying to ignore the way his body had gone stiff, and pressed his head against my shoulder. "I would die before I let anyone harm you." There was a muffled sob, and I kissed his hair. "I'm not angry, little one. Not at all. And even if I were I would never hit you. You are far too important to me."

By then he was simply crying in my arms, shaking as he tried to cover his face. "Don't. Don't."

"S-hh, my dear. It's alright."

"It's _not_! I'm not supposed to be like this; I'm not supposed to go around dressing up in my sisters' clothes and pretending I'm a girl. It's stupid and it's sick and it's wrong... and I can't stop." He pressed his face against my shoulder and broke out sobbing again, harder than before, and I felt tears burning my own eyes as I held him.

"No, little one, you are _none_ of those things. You are smart and talented and beautiful"—he managed a small smile at the word—"and I love you very much."

"I love you, too," he choked out, and glanced down at the floor. "I'm really sorry." Before I could get in another word he added, "I should have known you weren't going to hit me, but... my dad..." He stopped, hiccuping, and took a deep, shaky breath, scrubbing at rogue tears with the back of one hand. "Sorry."

"You don't have to keep going."

He shook his head. "When I was little—like, really little—I thought I was a girl. I was sure of it. I mean, I liked pink things and dresses and tea parties and all that stuff, and I was so small that everyone else kind of figured I was a girl, too. My dad didn't... like that, though. He would yell at me and slap me, and he said it was a good thing Mom died when she did so she didn't have to see her only son dressing up like a tramp." He stopped suddenly and I held him closer as he broke down crying again. "_I tried._ I really, really tried to be a boy. But I just... I'm _not_. I don't feel like a boy. I like make-up and dresses and doing my hair. I want to learn how to sew and cook and dance and play with dolls the way all the other girls do."

I lifted his chin gently until he was looking straight at me. "There is no rule that says only girls can do those things, Beat."

He nodded, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. I gave him my handkerchief instead. "I know. I mean, I didn't before I met you guys, but I know that now. You and Jazz are pretty amazing that way." He gave me a weak smile that broadened when I smiled back. "But I still feel silly calling myself a boy, you know? It's like I'm in hiding or something." His face went serious again as he added, "I'm tired of hiding."

I hugged him. "I don't want you to feel like you need to hide anything, sweetheart. We love you exactly the way you are."

"Even if I'm not a boy?"

"Absolutely."

He sighed and rested his head against my shoulder, clutching my handkerchief in one hand. "I love you guys, too."

I had—I still have—no idea what to say in such a situations. It isn't fair for me to tell him that he is 'normal' when, to the rest of the world, he is decidedly not, but I cannot force him into a role he was not meant to play.

"I don't mind if you wear the dress, little one, but you might want to take it off before the others get home." His winced slightly and I added, "People tend to react badly when they're... surprised. I will talk to everyone later and tell them what's going on, alright? That way they will know what to expect."

He gave me a crooked smile. "I don't think they're ever going to know what to expect, Father."

I chuckled. "My dear, no matter what gender you are, you are _still_ the most normal person in this whole family, and we love you very much."

He laughed at that, but still clutched at my shoulders as he whispered, "I hope the rest of the world can love me, too."

I nodded quietly. "Someday, Beat."

_Someday_ was the best answer I could give, and the most true. I know for sure that Beat will find people who love him—or her—for something more than the outside, but it might take a while. Until then, I suppose, our little family is just going to have to be enough.

I'll talk to Jazz when he comes back. Right now I've promised to help look through the attic for more dresses my little one can wear.


	16. Beatrice

Exactly one year later, here's another chapter! And just in time for Thanksgiving, too.

Just so y'all know, I wrote this chapter eight seperate times and every time it got corrupted or lost or destroyed or _something_. It's like this chapter wasn't meant to be.

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**September 12—later**

**What is life meant to teach us?**

**September 12—later**

I really do love Jazz. There are days when I'm not sure why we are together, but then there are days when I'm sure I could not possibly do all this without him.

Everyone came home almost an hour later, and Beat—my brave little Beat—changed out of his dresses and wiped off his make-up and put on a smile for them. With that sort of inspiration, I was a little ashamed that I couldn't seem to do the same.

We put away groceries in what felt like silence, although Salsa talked the whole way through. I kept my head down, trying not to look at anyone directly lest the last of my self-control fall apart, and I hurried out of the kitchen as soon as we were finished, hearing Beat laughing at one of Salsa's terrible jokes and wondering for the first time whether his laugh was real... whether it had ever truly been real in all the time I'd known him.

Jazz grabbed my arm as I was leaving, his brow drawn as if he could feel my worry as a palpable thing. "Hey—"

Viola pushed past us before I could respond, giving us both a strange look, and Jazz waited for her departure before he whispered, "Is everything okay?"

Just then Beat laughed again, and I couldn't help it. I began to cry.

Jazz's eyes widened in alarm and he pulled me toward him, nearly dragging me down the hall to his study. It wasn't until we were both safely behind the closed door that he dared to ask, "Sweetheart, what's going on?"

I shook my head helplessly, not sure how to explain it all to him. It wasn't that Beat's confession had upset me—I had told him myself that our love was unconditional—but I was torn between wanting him to be happy and wanting the strangers that surrounded us to care for him the way I did. Either Beat could embrace this difference and face a world that would hate him forever, or he could spend his life as a boy and hate himself instead, and the very thought of it was tearing me apart.

"C'mere," Jazz murmured, and gathered me into his arms as he leaned against the door. "It can't be that bad, Frederic. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. We'll figure it out together."

I pressed my face against his chest, and my words were muffled so that he had to bend down to hear me. "I do not think I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Parenting," I whispered, and I could feel him shaking his head.

"What are you talking about? You're a wonderful parent. I told you that this morning."

"I know, but I... I don't know what to do." I pulled away to find my handkerchief, and Jazz watched me carefully, his face concerned.

"Tell me what happened."

I re-told the story as best I could, and in the middle of it I realized there were nights when Jazz came far closer to being the man Beat's father was than I liked to admit. I realized, although I am a little ashamed to admit it now, that Jazz might be revolted by this new revelation; that his drunken rage might have a new target now because I couldn't handle this on my own.

The few moments of silence after I finished terrified me more than I could explain, and somewhere along the way he had pulled me into his arms again so that I could not see his face. I waited anxiously for a sign of that anger I could not control.

When he finally spoke, it was one of the only things I hadn't expected him to say: "You know, Beat isn't the only one."

"What?"

"I knew a girl when I was little," he explained, his voice strained. "She was a couple years older than me, and I—it wasn't until years later that I realized she'd been a man."

He laughed uncertainly, and when I finally looked up his eyes were bright with emotion. "Jazz?"

"She died," was all he said, and then shook his head again in disgust as one single tear slid down his cheek. "She committed suicide when she was fifteen."

"I'm so sorry" I felt guilty for having thought him capable of hurting my child, this man who was crying in front of me because some stranger twenty years ago had died, and I moved forward to hug him again.

He let me wrap my arms around him, his chin resting on the top of his head, and I could hear the little hitches in his breathing as he tried to silence the emotions we're supposed to be hiding. I kissed his shoulder, and Jazz whispered, quietly, "She was beautiful."

Just then someone knocked on the door we were leaning against, and Jazz chuckled a little as we straightened up. "Good thing we weren't doing anything too risque."

"I suppose two men crying together in a locked room _is_ a bit risque," I sighed, and he grinned at me as he opened the door.

"Oh," I heard him say, "hi, Beat."

"Polka wants me to tell you that she made sandwiches if you guys are hungry."

"Okay." Footsteps started to move away, and Jazz seemed to consider something for a moment before he called, "Hey, hold on."

The footsteps stopped.

Jazz glanced back at me and I nodded silently, sure that whatever I'd needed to say would be easier now that I had his support. "Can we talk to you for a minute?"

"Am I in trouble?"

"No," Jazz assured him, and Beat was certain to avoid my gaze as he walked in to sit on the overstuffed sofa. "We just wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." He pulled at the hem of the long blue sweater he'd changed into, his eyes focused on the floor. "Um... talk to me about what?"

Jazz sat down on the armchair across from him and leaned forward until their heads were nearly touching. "Your father told me what happened today."

I stood them both, leaning my elbows on the back of Jazz's chair, and my little one looked so afraid as he whispered, "I don't know what you're talking about. Nothing happened today."

"You don't think so?"

He shook his head, wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve. "C-can we just forget about it? It wasn't a big deal."

"It sounds like it was a big deal to me."

"No, it... it really wasn't. Let's just go eat lunch, okay?"

"Do you want to sit in my lap?" Jazz asked suddenly, and Beat looked up at him in surprise.

"Wwhat?"

"C'mere." He hoisted Beat off the couch and settled him in his lap, one arm around his shoulders, and Beat giggled quietly, stifling the noise behind his hand.

"Jazz, I think I'm too big."

"That's okay," Jazz assured him, "I'm a tough guy. I can handle it."

Beat laughed a little more and leaned against him nervously, as though he wanted to be held and had been afraid to ask for it. "Did Father tell you... everything?"

"Yeah."

"And you... I m-mean, are you... okay? With—with me?"

"I love you," Jazz said, "just as much as your father loves you, and he already told you there's nothing on this earth that could change that."

I could see his eyes were misty, and I could imagine him remembering that girl he'd told me about: wondering if maybe a little more love could have saved her, if her life could have been different if someone would have told her those words. I think he must have been wondering if those words could make the world different for Beat.

"I'm scared to tell everyone else," Beat whispered after a minute. Jazz nodded.

"I know."

"I just..." he paused. "I don't know how to explain it. If I... if I looked like a girl and stuff, I would still be the same person, you know? I'd still love you guys and everything, but I'd be different, too, I think. I don't think it would just be me in a dress."

"Of course not," I said, and Jazz nodded again.

"Something like that would be a big change."

"I guess that's what I'm afraid of," he whispered, his head tucked under Jazz's arm. "I still want to be myself, but I just want to be myself how _I _see me. I mean, I even like my own name."

I had not thought about it before then, but I could only imagine how frustrating that must be to believe yourself to be one thing and constantly be called another. As gently as I could I asked, "Would you like to change your name, little one?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess that would make it all official, huh?"

Jazz shifted slightly, considering the question. "Maybe we could come up with a full name for you that's a little more feminine, but we could still call you Beat for short."

Beat's face lit up, and I couldn't help but smile. "Hey! That's a great idea. Then no one would make fun of me for having a boy's name."

Jazz smiled too, and I had a sudden thought of the weary poet coming out from the dregs of purgatory to see the glorious lights of paradise above him. I'm sure that's how my little one must have felt. "You know," I began, "where I come from, there is a poem that tells of a woman named Beatrice, who was so merciful and so kind that she became an angel after she died, and her lover walked through all the levels of the underworld so he could spend eternity with her."

That isn't quite how the story goes—after all, it is Beatrice who sends Dante through hell—but I thought that rephrasing served the purpose better. Beat blushed a little. "You... you think that should be my name?"

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah," he answered, "but I'm not nice enough to be an angel."

I wanted to tell him that every scar would bring him closer to angelic perfection, teaching him what it meant to be wounded so that he would be careful with his own powers to wound, but Jazz summed it up much more succinctly than I could: "Nobody is. That's what life is supposed to teach us."

Beat smiled again, a little shyly as he whispered, "I think I like Beatrice."


	17. How to be a Boy

**September 15—Tuesday**

The last several days have found Jazz and I discussing what we ought to do, talking in snatches of conversation when no one else was around. As relieved as I was (and am) to have his support, there was, of course, the small matter of explaining this to the rest of the household—and not everyone proved to be as understanding as Jazz.

My poor, poor Beatrice. I had prayed the beginning of her new life might be easy.

We finally made the decision to simply _tell _them, and so earlier this afternoon we gathered the rest of our makeshift family into one room to make the announcement.

It started off well enough. Most everyone was supportive, if a little wary of the idea, but after a minute Beat made the mistake of saying that he felt like a liar every time he tried to pass himself off as a boy. Salsa jumped to her feet and immediately started arguing, a heated situation that defied any attempts to diffuse it and which culminated with my redhead shouting at the top of her voice, "Why don't you just tell everyone the truth, then?"

Beat set his mouth in a hard line, his face angry and hopeless at the same time. "The truth is I like dressing up in girl's clothes and pretending I'm a pretty princess, okay?"

"Well that's stupid," Salsa shot back, her hands balled into fists, "because you're not a pretty princess, you're a stupid ugly _boy,_ and you better grow up and act like one before somebody comes up and whips your butt!"

"You're the ugly one!"

"Really? I wouldn't know, I'm not the hommasse here!"

"_I hate you!_" Beat screamed, and turned and ran full-speed up the stairs.

"Good," Salsa shouted, "because I hate you too!" and stormed out of the room without a backwards glance.

The rest of us stood in sudden, awkward silence, looking uncertainly at each other. Salsa's door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it shut.

"Well," Falsetto muttered. "That was fun."

I glanced at Jazz, who rubbed at the back of his neck apologetically. "I... can't imagine that could have gone much worse."

"She could've hit him," Viola offered. "That might have been worse."

"Yeah," Allegretto said sarcastically, "everyone knows blood is harder to clean up than hurt feelings."

March shrugged, her hands clasped in her lap. "Blood _is_ really hard to get out of whites."

A few people laughed, but when we quieted down again we could hear Beat crying, probably locked upstairs in my music room. Jazz turned to look at me and whispered, "Do you want me to go talk to her?"

I was unsure which of our two new girls he meant, but I sighed slightly and shook my head. "I will see what I can do about Salsa if you can calm down Beat."

"Alright."

He squeezed my hand briefly and started off towards the staircase without waiting for a reply.

The rest of us sat together without speaking, unsure what there was we could say. For a moment I missed Beat, thinking that he would hurry over to one of his sisters and pull at her sleeve, exclaiming, "C'mon!" and they would all go off on some new adventure somewhere. But instead my dear March stood up, forever the peace-maker, and made a wide gesture with her hands. "I think we ought go and find some of the old gowns we have lying around. That way Beat will have something to wear tomorrow when he and Salsa have calmed down."

"Sounds good," Viola said, sounding relieved to be rid of the silence. "Between all of us here we must have _something_ that would fit him."

"I have some old petticoats Beat could have," Polka said, and March nodded.

"There's a silk slip in my closet that I never wear."

"Yeah," Falsetto chuckled, "we should see if my—"

Allegretto stood up suddenly, his face pink. "Um, as long as you four are busy I'll go and... m-milk the goats."

The girls tried not to laugh as he hurried out of the room, and when I stood up to follow him (I was beginning to grow a little uncomfortable with the conversation myself) Falsetto yelled, "Brassiere! We should see if my brassiere fits him!"

I heard Retto choke a little on a response.

I made my way down to Salsa's room, certain that the women would be just fine without me. Honestly, I wouldn't know what a silk slipped looked like anyway.

Outside of the twins' room I paused, listening. I had learned my lesson about entering without invitation, but there was no sound except the faint _bah_ of goats outside and the late summer wind rattling through the trees. I took a moment to think about how strange it was for things to change so much and yet not change at all.

I knocked gently, and then pushed open the door when I received no answer. Salsa was sitting on her bed in a mess of sheets and blankets, her arms folded tightly as she stared holes into her sister's side of the room.

"What do you want?" was my only acknowledgment.

"What you said was very hurtful," I murmured, sitting down on the edge of her mattress. She rolled her eyes.

"It was _true_."

"Perhaps," I agreed, after a moment, "but that doesn't mean you ought to have said it."

"That's so stupid," she huffed. "You're always telling us to be honest and tell the truth and stuff, and then when I do tell the truth you get mad at me! It's not fair."

I smiled slightly and thought of all the times I myself have said that. "I suppose a good part of life is unfair."

"Yeah, well, it's stupid."

I sighed, knowing there was no good way to answer such a statement. Instead I said quietly, "You made Beat cry."

"I'm not sorry," she muttered, but there was a little less venom in her voice than before. "It's not my fault if he's a crybaby."

"You know it took a great deal of courage for him to tell you what he did."

"What, that's he's a _girl? _Yeah, you're right—it would take a lot of courage to tell everyone that you're some kind of freak of nature who likes wearing dresses and playing with dolls even though you have a penis!"

I paled a little at the thought of my ten-year-old knowing what a penis was, but decided to ignore it. That hadn't been the point of the conversation, after all. "You enjoy doing boy things sometimes, Salsa. Your wrestling matches and Beat's doll houses are really not that different."

"Yeah, but I don't wear pants and call myself a boy!"

I had a sudden memory of my dear Aurore dressed up in trousers and a top hat and calling herself George Sand: how it had disgusted me when I'd first met her, the prospect of a woman dressing as a man. Nearly a decade later, I hadn't been able to imagine my life without this beautiful person, no matter which pronoun I used. "Sweetheart, why does this bother you so much? Beat will be the same person he's always been; he will still be part of our family, and all of us will still love both of you exactly as much as we always have. None of the things that will change will affect you."

Salsa shook her head in exasperation. "You wouldn't get it."

I could not imagine it had simply been part of her upbringing, since March hadn't seemed to harbor any of the same concerns—but then again, Salsa had gone through her own trials while she was away from her sister. "Could you explain it to me?"

"I maybe like him," she said after a moment, and her face looked like Beat's had earlier: angry and hard, and hiding something more vulnerable underneath. "And I don't even know for sure if I like him because sometimes he acts like a whiny baby, but sometimes I do and now I can't because all of a sudden he's a girl!"

I sat in stunned silence, unsure what to say. Certainly that hadn't been the answer I'd expected. "You... like him?"

"Yes," she grumbled, "that's what I said."

"But the two of you fight all the time." Salsa glared at me, and I realized too late how foolish an observation that'd been. Love comes in many forms, after all. "I... I see."

"It isn't a big deal," she said, folding her arms again. "Or it _wasn't_ a big deal, but now he has to come out and say all this stuff about how he wants to change his name to some girl name I've never even heard of before and now I don't even know what to call him because he's always been a boy and now suddenly he's not!"

I blinked, still overwhelmed by this abrupt revelation. I was beginning to understand the fact that this whole situation was much more than I had realized at first—not simply a changing of outfits and titles, but the loss of a family member. This, in essence, was the beginning of a girl named Beatrice and the end of a boy named Beat, and I had not quite factored in the need to mourn for the one before we could welcome the other. I pulled Salsa into my arms.

"You know," I said gently, "there is nothing to say a woman must fall in love with a man."

Salsa rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know, but you're still supposed to anyway. It's kind of expected."

I chuckled slightly. "My dear, since when have you done something simply because it was _expected _of you?"

"You don't get it," she huffed, and folded her arms over mine. "You guys are home all the time; you don't ever have to deal with all the people who think it's weird."

"Who think that what is weird?"

"You guys. You and Jazz. Because... you know." She paused. "Because you're both boys."

I considered that for a moment, and my little one leaned her head against my shoulder as I asked, "Salsa, are you uncomfortable with Jazz and I being together?"

She didn't answer right away and I didn't say anything, not wanting to force a response before she was ready to give one. "I... don't know," she admitted finally. "I mean, boys aren't supposed to love other boys, and at first I kinda thought it was gross to see you guys kiss and stuff, even though March was mad at me for thinking that. But..."

She trailed off, and after a moment I prodded gently, "You can tell me, little one."

"I know you fight, and sometimes I hear Jazz yelling at you in the middle of the night, but you guys really love each other. Like, really, really love each other. And... I don't know." She shrugged and looked away. "I guess sometimes it's kinda cute."

I laughed a little, hugging her, and Salsa blushed and pushed me away. "It might be a little strange," I agreed, "and the rest of the world may not agree with our decision, but we both care about you and about each other more than you will ever know."

"We love you guys, too."

"And he might not always seem like it, but Jazz is a good man."

"That's it!" Salsa cried, jumping to her feet, and I was left sitting by myself on her bed, baffled. "Jazz can teach Beat how to be a boy!"

"W-what?"

"Jazz is a boy," she demanded, "right? So if he could just teach Beat how to act like a boy, then everything would be okay again!"

"I… am afraid that wouldn't quite work."

"Why not? It's perfect!"

"Being a boy or a girl is not something you can teach," I murmured. "And even if it were, I am not certain I would want Jazz to be the one to teach it."

I had not meant to add that last part out loud, but it was too late to retract it. Salsa turned to glare at me. "What'dya mean, he couldn't teach it? He's like the manliest guy I know!"

I smiled a little, wondering offhandedly if that has been meant as a slight. "Why do you think that?"

"'Cause he has a giant sword and tons of really heavy armor and he fights bad guys all the time to keep us safe. Like, what's more amazing than that?"

"You know, I am a boy too."

Salsa rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but you're different."

"Prince Crescendo and Count Waltz were both boys, as well."

"The Captain is pretty cool," she agreed, "and Count Crazy Train was just loony, so he doesn't count."

I laughed. "Count Crazy Train?"

"Yeah, that's his name. We decided."

_We _had not decided, but I only shook my head. "There are many, many boys in this world besides Jazz, my dear, and there are many, many different ways to define masculinity."

"So why can't Beat be one of them?" she groaned, throwing herself facedown onto the bed.

"That's the thing about love," I murmured, running my fingers through her wild hair. "You have to love people exactly the way they are right now."

She rolled over and shielded her eyes with one arm. "I still think it's weird."

"I know, little one."

"And I still think he should be a boy."

"I know. But such things are not our decisions—the only thing we can do is accept them or not accept them. We can't change them at all."

She sighed and peeked out at me from behind her arm. "Father?"

I smiled. "Yes?"

"I'll try."

I bent down to kiss her forehead and whispered, "That's all I ask."

* * *

**A/N - 'hommasse' was the best insult I could find, although I'm aware that Salsa isn't properly using the word. I imagine she picked it up from someone off the streets or something. :)**

**And also, we passed 50 reviews!**


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